Chatting up Camonna Tong
by ciderConnoisseur
Summary: The tale of an outlander struggling to follow the destiny he never chose, and the unlikely friend he finds in an alcoholic gangster. Also posted on Archive Of Our Own, crossposted here as the same thing with the chapters slightly more condensed.
1. The outlander

Another evening, another outlander Dunmer skulking in the streets of Balmora.

Velyn is sitting on the stairs next to the Balmora Council Club, guarding the entrance, drinking his sujamma and watching the outlander from afar. You really can't miss them. The way they walk, looking behind themselves every few steps, casting glances and avoiding looking anyone in the eyes. The unusually pale skin, maybe from having non-Dunmer ancestors in their family tree, maybe from living a posh life in one of the big cities of Cyrodiil. You don't even need to hear their exaggerated, obviously Imperial accent or hear their chirpy voices, untainted by years of ash accumulation.

There's something about these pale Dunmer that makes him uncomfortable for some reason. The fact they're so different, or the fact most of them don't know anything about the country they recently found themselves in. Maybe it's the fact that without an exception, they all stop dead in their tracks when they come across a member of the Camonna Tong, like this one just did. He's a few meters away, too close for comfort to the Council Club, especially if you're not from around these parts. Velyn is pointedly staring at him from atop his bottle of sujamma, sizing him up. It only takes a second for the outlander to snap out of it and attempt to walk past the club, but that's a second too late.

-Bit late to be wanderin' around, isn't it… _outlander_?

He stops again and looks over, obviously startled by the man's gruff voice.

-I was… actually looking where to get a drink – he stammers, his voice cracking some halfway through the sentence. Velyn stands up to get a closer look at him. The outlander is kind of skinny and slightly shorter than him, with a rusty iron dagger and some clothes that look like he just got out of prison. _Wouldn't be surprised if that was true, too. Most likely a skooma addict._

-I'm not a tour guide, f'lah. Why don't you ask your friends? Better yet. Why don't you tell me what you're _really_ looking for? – Velyn doesn't avert his gaze from the lad's pale face.

-C-Caius Cosades – he mutters_. Knew it. This just got way easier_. Cosades is another Imperial outlander, a skooma addict to boot. _This guy is probably one of those that sell for a bit of moon sugar. Balmora's full of them these days._ Velyn casually takes out his dagger and starts playing with it. The outlander's discomfort is now tangible, as he's glancing around himself and looking anywhere but at him.

-Yeah, I know him. I'll tell you where he lives… for a price, of course. – Velyn says darkly, getting a bit closer to the outlander. His discomfort is for a good reason; if he were to get attacked, he couldn't fend off the attack with either his cheap iron dagger or his common clothes, _since the idiot apparently can't be bothered to put some armor on_. Not to mention, he looks all sorts of malnourished and weak, presumably from the skooma abuse.

-I'm sorry... I don't have any money. – It's a bold-faced lie. The outlander knows full well he's got at least 100 gold pieces weighing down his small bag, but he also knows he's in an unknown land. He could feel the gazes of the natives on him from the moment he stepped off the ship, and he's smart enough to put two and two together and figure out he's sticking out like a sore thumb. And if Imperial prison taught him anything, it's to not stick out. He was planning to use this gold to get some armor, a normal weapon, maybe spread it around a bit. The last thing on his mind is to hand it over to some _drunk creep_ in a dark alley.

-Don't fuckin' lie to me and hand over your cash – Velyn raises his voice, and in retaliation, the crappy iron dagger gets pulled. Before the young man has a chance to stick it in his ribs, he grabs his wrist and twists it. The outlander yelps in pain, dropping the dagger to the floor. With a speed unexpected from a drunk man, Velyn holds his own blade to the kid's ashy, scrawny neck.

-Let me go, _n'wah_ – the skinny lad says in his best impersonation of how a _real_ Dunmer should talk.

\- What did you just call me?_ Give me the fuckin' money. _– Velyn presses down on the kid's neck, only slightly, not enough to cause any serious damage, but enough to break the skin. A small stream of blood trickles from his neck and drips down on the floor, followed by a mortified gasp from the outlander.

-Okay! Okay. Just... take it! – he fumbles with the pouch for a second and shakily hands over all of his gold to the tall, dark man. The grip on his arm loosens and Velyn's blade withdraws from his neck. The wound is a long, thin line, and it's bleeding slightly on the collar of the outlander's shirt. It didn't nick any important blood vessels, judging by the blood flow, but it still looks painful and will probably leave a scar.

-Pleasure doing business with ya. – The grin in his voice is audible. – And about Cosades... other side of the river. Ask around in the South Wall Cornerclub. Can't miss it. Everyone knows him.

The outlander freezes up and looks at Velyn with an expression of disbelief. For a second he looks like he's about to say something, but then he turns away, stammers a small _thanks_ and makes a beeline for the bridge. Velyn chuckles to himself as he goes inside the Club to get some fancy flin with his newfound cash and finish the rest of his night guard shift. He doesn't really feel bad about taking the money that would be wasted on skooma anyway, but he can't help but wonder why an emaciated addict would have so much money on him. It strikes him as weird.

Half an hour later, as he's drunkenly staring somewhere far away behind the silt strider, he wonders to himself if he'll ever see the strange guy again.


	2. The reunion

He _does_ see the outlander again, as a matter of fact.

Sometime a week after that fateful night, about two hours and one pint of sujamma into Velyn's uneventful shift as the Council Club night guard, the kid's skulking in the streets again. Only this time, he's visibly limping, keeping to the shadows, and holding one hand over his ribs. He's clad in chitin armor and carries an iron longsword now, but Velyn can clearly see, even in the evening mist, the big, dark, wet wound on his side. He's staggering in a worrisome way and he apparently _still_ hasn't learned to keep out of this part of town.

-Hey, _f'lah_! - Velyn yells after the kid.

He freezes in his tracks and turns his head Council Club-way. They lock eyes and he immediately looks away and starts to limp on. There's a certain frenzied panic in the way he's shuffling and clutching his side, and alarm bells start going off in Velyn's head. Maybe it's the boredom, or the surprise of seeing the strange young man again, but he can't help asking.

-You alright there?

He pretends not to hear the question and manages to get a few more meters on before he missteps and almost falls down. Velyn jumps up from his post and darts over. The outlander's even paler than the last time he saw him, breathing shallowly and overall looking pretty close to bleeding out. Velyn grabs his shoulders, ignoring the outlander's request to "_leave me alone, n'wah_" and drags him on the stairs where he was sitting and drinking away his shift just a minute ago. He makes him sit down, but as the outlander falls back limply and closes his eyes, Velyn is struck with a realization; if he doesn't help, he'll have a dead body on his hands, and he does _not_ want to have to deal with that.

-You look awful, f'lah. Stay here a second. – he commands, gets up and heads into the Council Club.

He can't let the guy bleed to death. He tells himself, nearly sprinting down the stairs, that it's because he's trying to keep up the reputation of the Camonna Tong, since they can't have dead outlanders near the club. It'd be too obvious and they'd get blamed immediately. They aren't exactly _friendly_ with outlanders, at best. This explanation works pretty well.

It's a moderately busy night in the Club. There's some regulars sitting around and chatting, and in the back room, a few of his partners in crime are discussing something that's ostensibly a drug deal. They stop abruptly when Velyn enters and glare at him as he picks up some bandages and a healing potion from the back room supply chest. He exits, careful to close the door behind him, and tells the bartender to fix him a cup of trama root tea.

-For Mephala's sake – the bartender mutters darkly – what's gotten into you, Vel? You tryna quit drinkin' or somethin'?

-...and a bottle of Mazte. – he _was_ going to get another drink, anyway. Plus, he can't let anyone here know something fishy's going on, like him suddenly developing _motherly instincts_ for some _outlander scum_.

By the time he gets back to the outlander, he's passed out on the stairs. Velyn removes his broken chitin cuirass, rips the bloody rags off the wound and pours a bit of healing potion on it, rubbing it in the cuts. They look like they've been inflicted by something's claws. Probably a nix-hound. He wakes up with a pained yelp and looks at Velyn hazily.

-Here, drink this. – Velyn hands him the tea. It has mildly magical properties and should keep him alive for a bit more. – And you're gonna drink the rest of this potion when I'm done here.

The outlander is silent as his wound is getting bandaged. Velyn wants to ask him about a lot of things, but he holds his tongue until he makes sure the kid won't die. Tying the bandage, he gives him the rest of the potion and uncorks his bottle of mazte, sitting down on the stairs next to his patient.

-Why are you doing this? – the outlander asks, nearly a whisper.

-Couldn't let you die here. Too close to the Club. The guards would see, we'd get blamed, and the Camonna Tong has enough problems as it is. – he takes a sip of the potion and sighs in relief. – Also, thought I'd warn ya to stay outta this part of town. My comrades don't take kindly to the likes of you.

He looks a mess. He's obviously tired, cold, in pain, and probably hungry. They sit there in silence for a while more, listening to the muffled sounds of drunks in the Council Club and the droning, sonorous cry of the silt strider. It's quite late and the streets are empty, with no guards in sight. They don't patrol this street, anyway.

-_So_ – Velyn clears his throat – you… you found Cosades alright?

-I don't want to talk to you. – the outlander says with a death glare. – I thought you'd have some human decency to leave me the _fuck_ alone.

-Yeah, and leave you to die in the street. Helluva way to say thanks.

-_Anything_ would be better than this _stunt_ you're pulling right now – he starts to get up and falls back down painfully. – you fucking _robbed_ me at knifepoint and cut my neck up, I don't owe you thanks, I don't owe you _shit_, except a sword to the gut, maybe! – he tries to get up again, struggling, and falls down once more. He looks exhausted and the bandage on his ribs quickly gets darker.

Velyn has nothing to say at this outburst, since everything said was true. But things don't work this way in Balmora. The outlander is not invulnerable. He should have known better.

-If I wasn't sure fighting you right now would be a death sentence – the outlander mutters quietly – instead of talking, I'd gut you and leave you to bleed out right here. – sighs and closes his eyes.

He should have known better than to stick out the way he did. Should have known better than to let everyone see he was an addict, outlander, a lowlife not a single person would miss.

-You strut in here all the way from Cyrodiil and you expect us to be friendly? D'you even know who I am? – Velyn asks him.

-No, and I don't care.

-Well, you _should_. I'm with the Camonna Tong. To us - _to me_ \- all outlanders oughtta be slaves, otherwise we try to get rid of 'em, and that's _exactly_ what it sounds like. D'you think anyone would _care_ if I had left ya to die here? – he lifts the kid's chin up and stares at him intently, ignoring his weak protests. – D'you think anyone would wanna fuck with the Camonna Tong? Even by the guards, yer kind is not wanted here. Especially with your _condition_.

-So why the hell did you just save my life, then? - the outlander asks through gritted teeth, looking slightly puzzled as to what the _condition_ is.

-Dunno - Velyn shrugs - ain't you glad I did, though?

The outlander goes quiet again. There's a look in his eyes Velyn can't quite place. Vvardenfell has not been kind to him for the short time he's been here. But he'll get used to it. He has to, eventually. It's either that, or death.

-Where you gonna sleep? – Velyn asks after a short pause.

-I don't know. I don't really have any money. I won't make it to Cosades' place, I think it's too far for me to walk. I guess I'll just go outside the gates and sleep in the grass or something. – He's visibly weak and drained. Velyn doubts the kid could even get up on his own, let alone walk to the other part of town to Cosades. Balmora is a big place.

-Yeah, and get attacked again. You can sleep at my house if you wanna. – For a moment Velyn can't believe he's making that offer… but it feels _right_ somehow. The insecurity turns to determination. Maybe he can attempt to save at least _one_ outlander from dying in their first week in the unforgiving land of the Dunmer.

The outlander weakly laughs until he realizes Velyn is serious. – Yeah, and wake up to a knife in my back or something?

\- I promise I'm not even gonna touch you. Seriously, this is your best option.

\- Yeah, I don't believe you. Fuck off. – he says dismissively.

\- I swear on my _ancestors_.

When a Dunmer says that, you'd best believe he was serious. He looks at Velyn and the man can practically see the gears grinding behind the outlander's eyes, like looking into the insides of a Dwemer construct.

\- Alright. – he says after a short pause.

* * *

Velyn unlocks the door of his house. It's a nondescript one-room flat, just like so many Hlaalu architecture houses in Balmora, not too long of a walk from the council club. If he had to describe it, first he'd say it was kind of cold; he barely spends any time here, and when he does, it's just to get a few hours of sleep. Next you'd notice the clutter; there are empty and half-full bottles almost everywhere, since two thirds of Velyn's pay go on his drinking alone. If you confronted him about this, he'd probably shrug and say "_hey, at least I'm not a skooma addict_." Overall, it's not the best joint in town, but it will do just fine for a wounded, tired outlander with no other options.

The outlander slowly sits down on Velyn's bed, still glancing at him with unsure eyes. Velyn avoids his gaze and gets to making some kwama eggs and scuttle so he doesn't starve the guy to death, and trama root tea because he's feeling nice.

\- So, you gonna answer my question? D'you catch up with Cosades?

\- Yeah. Eventually. – the kid shuffles around on the bed, positioning his bandage better and heaving a sigh. – Really, I could have just asked anyone else.

\- Yeah, tough luck – Velyn lets out a raspy laugh – so, he gives you a discount or somethin'?

\- Discount? – he looks puzzled again.

\- For the skooma, s'wit. What else? Here's some tea.

\- … I don't do skooma.

\- Sure you don't – Velyn stirs the pot of scuttle and adds some more corkbulb to the fire crackling beneath it – that's why all skinny outlanders come here, really, don't try to play that game with me.

-No, really. I have never done skooma. – he says without a hint of stammer in his voice. Velyn turns around and looks at him. Could he be telling the truth? He doesn't even have the characteristics of a real skooma addict, like dark circles under the eyes and yellow teeth. What is he playing at?

-Why the hell were you lookin' for Cosades then? That guy spends his every drake on moon sugar. Handles it almost better than a Khajiit, too.

\- Caius is my relative – he says after a short pause. He's clearly lying, but Velyn doesn't pressure him into telling the truth. He can already tell the kid won't budge, and he's pretty sure he wouldn't tell the guy who _robbed_ him the truth, anyway. The outlander sips his tea and looks a bit more relaxed now.

\- So – Velyn sits down with two plates of food, clearing some of the bottles off the table and nodding at the young man to come over – how'd you get that cut, anyway?

\- Jumped by a nix-hound – he says, sitting down and inspecting the food with a hint of skepticism. Vvardenfell's cuisine isn't great, but they make do. – I was walking down the road to Arkngthand and the damn thing just _appeared_. I couldn't even hit it before it slashed at me. I managed to kill it, though.

\- Alright, what the hell were you doing walkin' to Arkngthand? – Velyn stammers with disbelief bordering on amazement. – It's not exactly a popular tourist place, more like a death trap… you a Dwemer expert, or _suicidal_, or what?

\- I'm not sure I should tell you. – He's slowly chewing on scuttle. It's greasy and tastes like ash, but it's the best food to be found here, other than hackle-lo.

\- Why all the cloak an' dagger? – Velyn deftly uncorks a bottle of mazte to get him through the rest of the evening, glaring suspiciously at the younger elf.

\- Come on. You know why. – The outlander abruptly looks at him and there's suddenly a pang of guilt twisting his insides.

They eat in silence a bit more, Velyn's mind buzzing with thoughts he can't quite express correctly, but he says them out loud anyway. He was never a great talker.

\- I'm sorry about… yeah. I thought you were a druggie or somethin'. You know, no relatives, outlander scum, the whole deal. Didn't know you were some kind of… _crazy Dwemer expert_, or whatever.

\- Yeah, I suppose I should have anticipated that. – he gets up, slightly wincing. – I'm going to go to sleep.

\- Right then – Velyn says flatly as the outlander gets beneath the covers and lays on the side which wasn't ripped apart by a wild animal. The apology goes unaccepted.

Velyn doesn't even consider getting into bed next to the outlander. It would be awkward in mostly any other situation, but definitely awkward with the guy he'd robbed just a week prior. So he just does what he does every other night. He opens up another bottle of alcohol and decides he's going to pass out on the chair. He'd get a few hours of restless, fitful sleep, but anything is better than having to lay next to _him_.

After what seems like an hour, a sleepy voice lazily says:

\- I never did catch your name.

\- Velyn. Let's leave it at that.

\- Drevas. Likewise.


	3. The thoughts

Velyn awakes in the morning, blinking in the dust of the room. The fire has gone out and the room is cold and dreary once again, which reminds him of why he spends so little time here. He didn't change his clothes before passing out, his back is killing him and his head is the same sore wreck as every morning. He gets up from the chair to help his stiff back and muzzily wonders why he fell asleep in the chair in the first place. Then his memory finally kicks in and he turns to the bed, but Drevas is already gone.

\- Poor fool's probably hittin' the road to Arkngthand again – he mutters to himself as he slowly puts on some new clothes and stumbles out the room. He squints in the morning light and decides to go to the Council Club and get something to drink before the shakes start.

The morning passes uneventfully, counting some money for the boss and playing some cards, and Velyn soon finds himself sitting on the stairs again, nursing a bottle of shein and overthinking his predicament. This was not the first time he'd welcomed outlanders to Balmora the way he did Drevas, but it certainly was the first time he took one of them in his house.

Okay, he _did_ rob the outlander. But who could blame him? This is the way of Vvardenfell, and violence in the dark, secret murder, domination, are all in their culture. An outlander gets tossed out on Vvardenfell and decides to waltz right into Balmora and walk around in the dark like it's nobody else's problem? He could have gotten murdered, for Azura's sake, thinks Velyn. Did nobody tell him how to act? Or is he simply a complete _idiot?_

He _did_ think Drevas was a drug addict. That's because that's what every skinny, young Dunmer who comes here _is_. Velyn has met dozens of young girls and guys who would whore themselves out in the dark alleys behind bars, at first for skooma, and later on for food. Nobody talks about it, but it happens.

He _did_ think Drevas was a nobody. That's because no one in Balmora honestly thinks of druggies as actual people. In a land where slavery is legal and endorsed, very few drug addicted outlanders, especially in northern and less friendly places than Balmora, manage to stay free for very long. Those same young men and women who turn to prostitution eventually just go into slavery because then at least they'll be fed.

Imperial law may protect outlanders to a degree, but in a way, this is the same old, dark, brutal Vvardenfell that has existed as long as Mer.

The day passes, as it always does. The ash is rising with short bursts of wind and it's likely to turn into an ash storm later on. Velyn briefly thinks of Drevas again, and wonders if he's enough of an idiot to try and sleep outside in the ash storm. It's likely that he will try, because he's never felt an ash storm before. He's probably going to try and cover his face with a rag and sleep. He doesn't yet know that the ash enters every pore of your body, gets in the wrinkles of your face, gets stuck in your eyes, seeps into your clothes and suffocates you as if it had a mind of its own. The only thing you can do in an ash storm is to stay inside, tear your old clothes up to seal every crack in your room with fabric and wait for it to pass.

As he's sitting there worrying about some outlander who couldn't for his life accommodate to life on this pile of ash and rock, a figure appears in the distance. After a few moments, he recognizes Drevas.

\- Hey, Velyn, do you think I could stay at your house again tonight? I'm broke and… - he shuts up and glares somewhere left of Velyn.

\- What is it, outlander? Scared of a little ash? – Velyn can't help himself and receives an angry glare in response.

\- Hey, shut up, I heard terrible things about ash storms, I really don't want to be outside in one! Plus, my wound is open again and, you know… - he trails off.

\- Why can't you sleep over at Caius' place? – The question has to be asked. – I thought he was a relative? – Half-heartedly, Velyn is hoping he'll tell him the truth.

\- He has a single bed and I really don't feel comfortable sleeping with him in there… or comfortable around him in general. You know. – a sigh betrays sadness in Drevas' voice.

\- So you feel comfortable around me? – Velyn chuckles.

\- Not the least bit. But even you are better than that _creepy addict_.

Definitely not a relative. Drevas has gotten himself into something much bigger than himself, and he knows that Velyn knows. But neither of them mention it. He's looking at the slightly older, taller elf and clutching his side again, and Velyn feels a mixture of sorrow and warmth. He'll sleep in the damn chair again if it means the kid'll get better. _You owe him that much, _says the nagging voice in the back of his head.

\- Yeah, yeah. Sure you can sleep over. We'll take care of that wound. Don't you worry.

* * *

The Camonna Tong, at first glance, is Vvardenfell's crime syndicate dedicated to keeping the drugs in and the outlanders out. The mention of its name normally causes a hush to fall upon the conversation, as everyone fears these thugs, smugglers and murderers. They're known outside the borders of Morrowind, but nobody really gets the brutality across correctly. They either caricature it, making the organization into a boogeyman that kills people in broad daylight and the center of the city, or they conveniently forget about the part where all outlanders, ideally, would be turned into slaves.

It's a _crime organization_, but that's about it. Their presence in the land is undeniable, but they're mostly confined to their clubs and the chambers of rich Hlaalu members. It's only through, presumably, a rough childhood and bad company that forced Velyn to work for them. It helped that he's a tall, strong, and imposing elf – the boss took one glance at him and made him a sort of security guard around the Corner Club. Later on, Velyn figured that working for a crime organization isn't all that bad. He developed a knack for alchemy which he mostly utilized to make poisons, a keen sense for money and lots of skill with daggers. _Plus_, he says, _you get to meet new people_.

The knack for alchemy is now proving useful, as Drevas lays on the bed on his stomach, and Velyn carefully applies a balm made out of marshmerrow and resin on the wounds on his ribs. He winces every time the cuts are touched. It may be painful, but the healing properties of the two will help heal him soon. Plus, resin will help prevent wound infection and disease.

His skin is slightly colder than people of Morrowind usually have, Velyn notes. Dunmer skin is warm and ashen, their eyes red; everything begins and ends with The Red Mountain. When they die, they get burned. They're molded by fire, they can summon the power of flames through their ancestors. Velyn doubts Drevas, whose skin has cooled down from not living in the land that is the ancestral home of his people, can even summon the Wrath anymore. He wonders if the outlander is truly alone in this world. If his ancestors have forsaken him. If he no longer can know they are beside him. Can never take shelter in their arms.

Tending to another wound on Drevas' arm, obviously from the same broad stroke that made the incision on his ribs, Velyn once again questions his own motives. _This is an outlander_, he tells himself. _I've always aligned myself with those that would kill all outlanders in their beds. Why am I helping this guy?_

His eyes unconsciously dart to Drevas' neck. The incision he'd made while robbing the guy is still there, now as a thin red scar, visible against the pale skin. And yet, Drevas is half-asleep on the bed, allowing himself to be touched and healed by the same criminal that took his money, and almost his life, a week ago.

Velyn figures he simply can't kill anyone that stupid.

He gets up from the floor where he was sitting and gets back to the chair. He pours himself some sujamma, glances in Drevas' general direction and downs the first mug of the stuff. _This is going to be a long night._

A few mugs in, Drevas raises his head and says:

\- You're not going to sleep in that chair again, are you?

\- That was kinda the plan. You're all wounded and stuff. Didn't think you'd wanna get elbowed all night. You'd bleed on my sheets.

\- I'm not contagious, though. Come over, there's plenty of space. You looked so pathetic the other day when you passed out in that chair. I don't want to see that in the morning again.

Velyn has nothing witty to respond. He puts the bottle down and crawls in the bed next to Drevas, keeping a safe distance from him. Before finally falling asleep to the sound of ash hitting the window covers, he thanks Azura his bed is big enough to comfortably fit two people.


	4. The dawn

The ash storm turns out to not be so awful. It was more like one of those prolonged ashfalls that get a bit upset by the wind, but it wasn't a full blown ash disaster like Vvardenfell's had in the last few years, and that have gotten much worse since The Red Mountain started stirring and The Blight appeared. Luckily, it wasn't a problem in Balmora, since Balmora is too far away from the Mountain, but denizens of the town did hear stories about the Ghostfence failing from time to time, Dreamers in Ald-Ruhn, and worse. Sometimes, though, a veritable ash storm hits Balmora. When it does, going to sleep in a poorly insulated house guarantees one will be waking up in a dust-covered room, hacking up black ash and struggling to breathe.

What bothers Velyn more at the moment, though, is waking up with Drevas in his bed. He can smell the ever-present vapor of The Red Mountain's sulfur. The same thing that he wakes up to every day. Only this time there's a hint of the balm he used on Drevas' wounds. It's light and sweet. Even that smell reminds Velyn of him, so out-of-place in the unforgiving air of this land. As he's lying there, watching motes of ash and dust in the rays of the morning sun and fighting back alcohol-induced nausea, he hears Drevas stir from his sleep. He coughs, unconsciously flips over to the side that got messed up by a vicious predator, and yelps loudly. Velyn chuckles to himself as the outlander sits up and clutches his side with a pained grimace.

\- Good morning, sunshine.

\- Yeah... got any more of that balm of yours?

Velyn grumbles about how much he's spoiling the younger elf and how useless outlanders are, all the while dragging himself out of bed and grabbing his mortar and pestle from a shelf cluttered with random junk. He grabs anything with a healing ability from his cupboard and mashes it together. The balm turns out to be rather efficient, almost immediately reducing the redness around the wound that's almost a complete scar now. _At this rate_, Velyn thinks, _he'll be good as new by tomorrow_.

He puts his alchemical equipment back on its shelf and gives Drevas a pointed stare.

\- What? – the lad asks innocently, once again snug as a bug and showing no intention of leaving Velyn's house in the next few hours or so.

\- You gonna stay here and stare at the ceiling the whole day?

\- I'm _injured_.

\- Quit your bellyachin'. I don't know what kinda job you got in Morrowind, but given how you were to Arkngthand the other day, I guess it's pretty important, eh?

\- I can't say-

\- Yeah, yeah, I don't care – Velyn cuts him off with a hint of anger – What I'm sayin' is that you're gonna find yourself fightin' worse things than a little nix-hound if you keep explorin' ruins and walkin' round. And you know you're gonna keep that shit up, 'cuz you got yer _important matters to take care of_, right?

Drevas is silent, looking slightly alarmed as the bigger man raises his voice.

\- You want my advice? Get some good armor, train with that pigsticker you got there, get some muscle and stop whinin'!

\- Let's suppose I do. How am I going to get the money?

\- I dunno, work in the mines, do errands, sell potions, _do_ somethin'. The tavern always needs mopping. You can stay at my house if you want, and I can teach you a thing or two about potions and daggers for free, but my generosity ends _there_.

Drevas sighs. He pinches the bridge of his nose, suddenly looking terribly tired. After a moment of silence Velyn calms down and sits at the table, picking up last night's sujamma.

\- Why is it such a big deal that I've gone to Arkngthand, anyway? – Drevas pipes up.

\- Bad history there. Not just a Dwemer ruin, you ask me – Velyn responds dourly – I heard tell there's bandits and somethin' worse down in the depths. Even though, if it _was_ just a Dwemer ruin, what the hell is a kid like you doing walkin' there? You were _sent_ there, I'm bettin' on it. And they'll send you to _worse_ places yet.

A dramatic sigh is heard as Drevas gets up and looks his host in the eye.

\- What do you propose I do then, o master of the land? – he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Velyn gets a sudden urge to punch him.

\- How 'bout you go join the Fighters Guild? They'll have you fightin' rats an' small time bandits. They might even teach you to use that crappy sword you got. Good way to earn cash, too, if your blood is too rich to wash dishes over at Eight Plates.

\- I suppose that's as good of an idea as any. I'm going to go do that. – the sarcasm is gone. Drevas runs a hand over his wounds, cracks his stiff shoulder and starts putting what's left of his chitin armor on. It still resembles a cuirass, but the side is obviously ripped up and doesn't provide much protection.

\- Whatever gets you out of my hair quicker. – Velyn grumbles, taking a swig of his bottle with an expression of an elf drinking pure vinegar.

\- Oh, and, Velyn, could I stay over tonight as well?

\- Yeah. Jus' don't get _too_ used to it.

Drevas gives him an amicable nod and exits, slamming the door on his way out. Velyn gives his bottle an annoyed sigh. _By the blood of Boethiah, why do I even bother._

It's a sunny morning, the sky no longer obscured by heavy dark clouds, but the roads are covered in ash that rises with every gust of wind. Drevas is already used to some ash in his face as he's walking down the street, so he pulls his common shirt from his cuirass and drapes it over his nose and mouth. Walking to the Fighters Guild, it strikes him how he's started thinking of ash in his face as something _expected_, and chuckles to himself thinking how he'll be a true Balmora citizen soon if this keeps up. This gets him thinking of home, and his heart sinks slightly, as it always does when he remembers the Imperial City and the life he left there.


	5. The memories

_Author's note: a chapter detailing Drevas' life until he met Velyn._

* * *

\- It's all over, lawbreaker!

Drevas couldn't help but feel a sense of dread creep up his spine as the guard in meticulously polished armor gave his carefully practiced speech. The nausea was only exacerbated by the fact there were around 20 people around him now, watching this display and murmuring in disapproval. The rich man he'd tried to pickpocket just a few minutes prior was standing by smugly, muttering something to one of his equally well-dressed friends, who snickered into a gloved hand. The elf suddenly felt very small, sensing the judging stares of the people of the Elven Gardens District of the Imperial City on himself. This was definitely shaping up to not be his day.

It had been a beautiful day, the Loredas that changed everything. Drevas had woken up around 1 pm, had a meager breakfast of bread and leftover wine, and soaked up some sunshine on the lackluster beach of the Imperial Waterfront where he squatted in an abandoned building. He shared the house with three people, but the cast was ever-changing, except for his mother. She was always hanging around, charging people a penny for a palm-reading and two for a detailed fortune-telling. The other two people were a Nord drunk who, when not angry and yelling at passers-by next to The Bloated Float, was a jolly good chum to swap stories with, and an Imperial girl, Alessia. She was down on her luck and had been living in this house for a while now, and as it happens, Drevas had an eye on her. She was only modestly pretty, but her smile could light up a room, and she was a good listener for Drevas' tall tales of becoming a rich man one day. Money was always on his mind, even on this seemingly carefree day. Sitting on the shoreline and listening to the waves crash against the sand, the elf thought how to make some quick cash tonight.

Growing up in a poor district of a major city is seldom a good thing. Drevas' mother always reminded her son to stay out of trouble, but lacked the drive to really raise her child – it seemed she'd say those words just because she felt like she had to. And since her son never met his father, there was no one else to teach little Drevas in the ways of righteousness. By the age of 18, he'd gotten pretty good at fishing citizens' valuables out of their pockets. A penny here, a dagger there, always careful to not get caught. He was good at talking, too, and could play the lute somewhat, mostly to entertain drunk travelers and tourists for a bit of cash. Sometimes he'd play it to Alessia in the evening, lazily strumming the strings and singing an impromptu sing about love, or knights in faraway lands, or princesses in their towers. She'd always listen to it quietly, wide eyed, never interrupting until he played his final chord. And she'd always say it was the most beautiful song she'd ever heard, with such innocent sincerity Drevas just had to believe her every time.

Maybe he'd gotten too cocky, no longer always erring on the side of caution, assured he'd never get caught. Or maybe he wanted to get that lucky break, and get hold of a ring he could give to Alessia to finally ask her to be his. Whatever the reason, Drevas ventured out to the Elven Gardens district on the afternoon of that fateful Loredas. He'd walked the stone streets carefully and deliberately, with movements practiced a thousand times before. Mindful to not stand out among the rich people taking an afternoon stroll, but poised and ready to slip his hand into a particularly heavy pouch. It was usually a quick and fruitful affair. But his luck had to fail eventually.

As he walked next to an upper-class looking Breton, he sized the man up. Stocky, pale, dressed from head to toe in red velvet, keeping his nose to the sky and taking slow steps towards The King and Queen Tavern. An easy target, if Drevas had ever seen one. Without even thinking, he deftly slipped his hands into the man's pocket, feeling around for anything that was heavy or had a metallic coldness to it. His fingers touched something that was most definitely a gem, and a large one. He could feel his blood pumping – this was it, this is what he'd been waiting for – and his excitement cost him just an extra second of keeping his hand in the man's pocket. In that second, a clammy hand gripped his wrist, with a strength Drevas hadn't expected of this snooty half-baked noble.

-Guards! _Guards!_ – the man screeched immediately. Not only could Drevas not free himself from the grasp, heads were starting to turn, and very soon there were eyes on him from every direction. Even if he ran now, they knew what he looked like. They could catch him. Before he even heard the guard's heavy footsteps, he knew this was the end.

Pretty soon, Drevas was behind bars somewhere in the bowels of the Imperial Prison. He tried to calm himself. After all, pickpocketing isn't that big of a crime. They'd let him go soon. But a nagging feeling in the back of his head told him he royally messed up, and the longer he sat in the little cell, the more the walls seemed to close in. What if they forgot about him here? Nobody was coming for what felt like hours. Wasn't there supposed to be a trial? Some information about how long he was going to spend here, at least?

When a guard finally showed, the grin on his face said more than the words that came after it. Drevas listened in a sort of daze, aware that the now familiar sinking feeling in his stomach was coming, and it would split his insides apart. _The man you attempted to rob_, the guard remarked gleefully, _was a very rich merchant from Wayrest, and the gem in his pocket was priceless not even by your standards, sneak thief_. He had to say no more – Drevas knew he would not be coming back to his mother and Alessia anytime soon.

When the guard left, Drevas slumped on the filthy bedroll, defeated. It felt like the fire in his chest had gone out, smothered by the heavy air of his cell. He didn't dare think about what comes next, or how his life would look from now on, or how his mother in the abandoned building that started to feel like home is anticipating his return, or how much he resented not telling his girl of his true feelings while he still could. He didn't even have the energy to wonder if he'd ever see those two again.

He closed his eyes, clearing his mind until the darkness embraced him.

* * *

There's not much to do in an average cell within the Imperial Prison. Drevas spent about three months carving lines in the wall, feeding rats stale bread, and laying down feeling sorry for himself. He felt like he'd aged a lifetime in those three months, the minutes crawling like sloads, utter loneliness crushing his spirit. He would go days without eating sometimes – he got nauseous every time he thought about his predicament for too long and he didn't really need the energy, anyway – and his ribs started showing, pale skin stretched over bone. He wondered what his mother would say if she saw him like this, a shadow of his former jovial self. He was such a young man, and already it appeared he'd lost all hope, trapped in the darkness like a cockroach.

Waking up from a restless fever dream, he heard footsteps coming towards his cell, in a time not scheduled for his daily rations of dry bread and water. The thought of what that means didn't even cross his mind. He had difficulty even looking up when a burly guard slammed the hilt of his steel sword on the cell door.

-Get up! Time to go.

Drevas shakily stood up, not allowing himself to wonder if he's being released by some miracle, or if his mother finally found him and was allowed to visit – two things that felt equally impossible. He hobbled after the guard, his legs nearly giving out twice. Exercise, or even getting up from his bedroll, hadn't been a priority lately. There were a million questions in his head that just coalesced into a big confused mess. He was equally as confused when the guard handed him over to someone above his own rank, or when he was asked a few short questions about his date of birth and his father, the answers written down on a formal-looking sheet of paper. The prison officer nodded slightly and told Drevas to stay put, disappearing through the door and leaving the elf to stand there in perplexed silence. The guard side-eyed him as he kept one hand on the hilt of his blade.

After an uncomfortable half-hour in which Drevas wondered what time it was and regretted not eating his bread ration yesterday, the official returned with a few papers, sat down at his desk and got to sorting and stamping even more paperwork. The sight of such proceedings made him uneasy. Whatever it was, it was serious. Imperial law officers wouldn't fill out paperwork unless it was absolutely necessary. The anticipation made his head spin.

At long last, the officer looked up at the skinny elf and said in a deadpan voice a sentence that cut the silence like a knife and nearly did Drevas in right then and there.

-It's your lucky day.

The next few minutes were a haze. Drevas received a detailed explanation of where he was going, why he was going there, something something the Emperor, Morrowind, sailing East. He barely grasped anything the officer said, it felt too surreal. The prospect of being let go he could understand, but the conditions of his release, and his subsequent confinement in a country he'd never gone to, were too much to take in all at once. He blinked in the officer's direction. His confusion must have been obvious on his face, because the Imperial man repeated the key points of his detailed speech, slightly annoyed.

-You're going to Morrowind to carry out the Emperor's orders. You'll be leaving immediately. This is a mission of utmost importance and you are expected to carry out the will of the Emperor to the death. Do you understand? Good. Here's the forms you'll need. Do not lose them.

The guard clutched Drevas' bony shoulder in a vicelike grip, as if the young man was in a condition to run anywhere. As the officer handed him a stack of papers, he spoke in a very serious tone.

-You'll be receiving orders from the Emperor's agents from now on. We will know if you attempt to circumvent this mission. I don't need to explain that directly disobeying the Emperor constitutes treason. Now get him on the ship.

As Drevas stepped out into the cold air of the dawn, blinking in the rays of the Sun for the first time in months, he saw a ship anchored in the prison dock, with several guards waiting for him. He was quickly ushered on it, and before he was pushed into the cabin, he gazed westward onto the Imperial City for what could be one last time. He saw the White-Gold Tower, the walls of the inner city, the sunlight gently reaching his Waterfront where the only two people he cared about lived. The realization hit him; this could be the last time he ever sees it.

He wanted so badly to run, jump into the water and escape somehow. Tear down the door of the old abandoned house, grab his mother and Alessia and run anywhere but here, hide, cross the border. It could be done, it would be hard, but maybe it could be done. They could start a new life in a country where they'd escape the long shadow of the Imperial law, hiding and lying for the rest of their lives. But just as this thought came, it was gone, as the rough hands of the guard pushed him under the deck before he even mentally said goodbye to the only home he'd ever known.

He was leaving now, sailing East, to the strange home of his ancestors.

* * *

_Wake up. We're here. Why are you shaking? Are you okay? Wake up._

Drevas jolted from his sleep, his heart pounding and his breath ragged, feeling dizzy and overwhelmed by the strange visions he saw in his dream. But they quickly faded, replaced by the same slight confusion he'd felt for a few nights now, realizing he wasn't waking in his cold, damp cell, but in the cabin of a ship heading to the unknown. His cellmate, a rugged-looking Dunmer, stood over him with a slight look of concern in his one eye. Drevas had learned the man's name was Jiub and he was a killer, a realization that unnerved him slightly. Jiub wasn't much for conversation most of the time, but Drevas was just happy to have someone to talk to after months spent alone, with only rats and regrets for company.

\- I heard them say we've reached Morrowind. I'm sure they'll let us go.

A sense of slight dread fell upon the cabin as Drevas anxiously stared at the door. Sure, he was looking forward to stepping out in the open again, but he couldn't help but think what would happen now. Would the Emperor send him to his death sooner than he expected? The papers he got from the Imperial prison officer didn't say much. He read them over and over, but they just seemed like boilerplate forms to him. Soon, there was a guard at the door, and Drevas pulled himself up, nodded goodbye to Jiub and followed.

He didn't know what to expect, climbing the stairs to the deck, but anything he could have imagined didn't fit what he saw before him. Instantly, he was hit with the earthy, moldy smell of the swamp. There was a buzzing of mosquitoes in the warm air and a distorted whine of something Drevas couldn't recognize as a sound any human or animal could make. The boards of the dock creaked and felt damp under his feet, and the village before him was a ramshackle collection of buildings that made his Waterfront look like the Talos Plaza District. To his horror, he quickly found out the distorted whine came from a giant bug-like creature very close to where he was currently standing. His first thought was to get out of this dump and locate an actual city as fast as possible.

Drevas continued into the Census and Excise building, dealing with bureaucratic stuff as fast as he could, trying to get the show on the road and eat something other than stale bread for the first time in months. Maybe it was the excitement of standing out in the open again, but his stomach started complaining. On his way over to the second building, he snatched up some of the crab meat that was sitting out in the open and shoved it in his mouth, figuring it was going to go bad anyway. He also pulled a rusty dagger from the table, since one can never be too careful in a foreign country and it seemed no one would really miss it. He didn't dare touch the rest of the stuff in the room, thinking he'd tempted fate enough for a while, but he did find a nice ring in a barrel outside the building, which he promptly sold to a High Elf in the local tradehouse after chatting him up for a bit. He did always have a knack for selling things at a fair price.

-Say, Arrille, how would one get to Bal-mo-rah? – Drevas inquired, flipping through the release papers he got. Most of them were in a code he couldn't understand, but he did have clear instructions to locate one Caius Cosades. If that got him out of this vaguely disgusting place, he was willing to do it immediately.

-I recommend you use the silt strider. You don't seem like you'd be in a condition to walk all the way there. It's the safest way to get to any city, really. Just go to the ledge next to the giant bug, you can't miss it, it's the size of a -

Arrille stopped mid-sentence, laughing at the horrified look on the outlander's face. It took a few minutes to explain to Drevas that _no_, he wasn't joking and _yes_, it would safely get him to his destination. It was getting painfully obvious that it would take a while for the young elf to get used to this weird new place and at least attempt to fit in. With a sigh, Drevas said goodbye to the shopkeeper and went to climb on a giant bug, which he thought was the weirdest thing he'd done in a good number of years.

As the silt strider slowly trotted along the ashy path to Balmora, Drevas pensively gazed out to the area around him. It looked muddy, ashy, and dangerous. The flora was stuff he'd never seen before, with weird shrubs, giant mushrooms, and intertwining dark roots. The stench of the swamp hung heavily in the air. He hoped the wildlife wouldn't kill him before the Emperor's enigmatic quest had a chance to.

When he finally got to Balmora, the sun had gone down. Drevas decided to walk around town a bit first. He quickly realized something was wrong about his appearance, or clothes, or the way he walked, maybe? He didn't like the way the Hlaalu guards stared at him, red eyes visible through their odd bonemold armor, following his every move. Even the townspeople seemed on edge, avoiding him and giving him odd looks. The entire town gave him the creeps, and he still didn't know how to find Cosades.

It was starting to get pretty dark and Drevas was hungry, lost and slightly panicking. If he didn't want to be lost in a strange city, he definitely didn't want to be lost in a strange city after dark. He decided to go into the first inn he found, and took a right turn to go near the silt strider, figuring it's as good of a direction as any, and suddenly spotted a dark figure on the stairs of what looked like a bar, staring directly at him.

If the glares of other denizens of Balmora had been unnerving, this one was downright frightening. Even from a distance, Drevas could see malicious intent in the man's eyes, and a primal part of his brain told him to _look away _and_ just keep walking_.

-Bit late to be wanderin' around, isn't it… _outlander_?


	6. The guild

_Author's note: back to the present, continuing where Drevas left off._

* * *

The Fighters Guild smells vaguely of dust and sweat. Drevas can't shake the feeling that literally _everyone_ inside the building is taller than him, or at least has several dozen pounds on him – he _is_ pretty severely malnourished, after all. He's been in this building before while getting his orders from Hasphat Antabolis, but then he just quickly walked past everything, eager to start doing anything to move the Emperor's quest along. He figured, the sooner something about that is done, the sooner he can receive a pardon for his crime – the Emperor is sure to provide one for services rendered. And then, he can go back to the Imperial City, and put all of this behind him.

The few people he'd walked past while searching for someone who looks important have all given him weird looks, but he's used to it by this point. Soon, he locates a fiery-haired, tall Nord woman who looks like she might be in charge. He takes a deep breath, sticks his chest out, and tries his best to fake confidence as he struts up to her. She gives him a brief, derisive glance and seemingly waits for him to speak up.

\- Hello – Drevas clears his throat – I'd like to join the Fighters Guild.

For a second the strong Nord woman looks like she's about to laugh in his face, but she just shakes her head slightly and speaks in a booming voice.

\- Well, I suppose that's your right. Welcome. You want a quest right away, or... d'you wanna train some first? – she looks slightly worried – You should probably look a bit better before you take on a quest, man. Can't represent the Guild, looking like you do.

\- I was thinking the same thing, miss. – Drevas smiles sadly.

\- So, swords your thing, eh? – she nods towards the iron longsword strapped to Drevas' hip – Should probably talk to Fasile, then. Just down the stairs. Come back when you're not lookin' so skinny. Good luck.

Drevas silently does as told, wondering when it was that swords became his _thing_. He'd never wielded a sword in his life before – he only had one now because Cosades gave him some money upon their first meeting, so he needed to buy a proper weapon. With the 200 drakes, he got himself some chitin armor and the first weapon in Ra'Virr's shop that he could pick up and that wasn't a dagger. He desperately needs some practice with it. He'd only barely managed to fight off a weak, starved nix-hound a few days prior, which meant he's in no condition to tackle whatever lay within the ruins of Arkngthand.

He finds the Breton woman easily and approaches her. She looks up from polishing her chitin shortsword and raises her eyebrows at the young outlander.

-Hello, my name is Drevas Andaren. I'm new to the Guild and require assistance. I was wondering if you could give me some basic training with this sword I've got? – he says with a polite smile as Fasile stares at him. She nods, walks over to the stairs leading into the basement and motions for him to follow. Drevas slowly walks after her, pondering if the 50 gold pieces for the training are going to be worth it.

There's a training area here, and Drevas recognizes Hasphat, who looks up from his book to give him a wave and goes back to his reading immediately. He seems to be in no hurry to receive the Dwarven artifact he'd requested, which suits Drevas just fine. He was never good at working under pressure. He turns to Fasile and clears his throat again.

\- Well, as it happens, I got injured a few days back and it still somewhat hurts, so go easy on me.

\- Oh? – Fasile finally speaks up, in a high-pitched voice Drevas somehow didn't expect – Let me see the wound, young man.

He turns his side to the Breton and slowly pulls his chitin cuirass from the wound on his ribs, now almost fully healed and a scar forming. The nasty bruising around the wound is gone, and Drevas silently and reluctantly thanks Velyn for the balms. Fasile nods, motions for him to pull his cuirass back on, puts her shield up and slams Drevas in the ribs with it exceptionally hard, right on the injured area. He screams and jumps back, cringing in pain.

\- What the hell was that for? – he yells, panting and clutching his side.

\- In battle, you'll often hurt far worse, and still have to fight for your life – Fasile says coldly – will you drop your sword and cry the first time your opponent gets a lick in before you do? That's how you lose.

\- But –

\- No. The only way to learn to fight is to throw yourself into battle. And that means being ready for the pain, too. If you stick with us, one day, you might be in a situation where you'll have to fight, no matter how badly your wounds hurt. Because if that's enough to stop you, you deserve to lose.

Drevas listens, trying to mentally block out the throbbing pain in his side, as Fasile walks over to the weapon rack and pulls out a shiny longsword.

\- In any real battle, if you lose, you might die. That's how high the stakes are. That's what a real battle means. And with that in mind, you must learn to persevere, no matter how badly that _scratch_ on your side hurts.

-Now – she walks up, staring at Drevas with a calm, calculated intensity – show me how an outlander fights.

* * *

After the training, Drevas is exhausted and his muscles are screaming, but he feels just slightly more confident in his abilities. On his way back from the training area, he discovers a room full of bunk beds, and Eydis explains to him he can sleep there any time now that he's a veritable Fighters Guild member. He decides to sleep there from now on, feeling slightly awkward about sleeping in Velyn's bed, as he's still not sure the man won't stab him in his sleep for hogging the blanket. Feeling good about solving that issue, he walks over to Velyn's house to give him the news.

The inside of the house is dark and it takes Drevas a few seconds to locate its resident, who seems to be passed out on the chair, his head on the table. But a floorboard creaks under Drevas' boot and Velyn suddenly jumps up, pulling out his dagger and frantically waving it around.

\- Who's there? I'll cut ya... oh. It's _you_.

\- Hey, don't scare me like that – Drevas gasps, a hand unconsciously reaching for his neck. Velyn suddenly looks slightly guilty.

\- Could say the same thing for you – Velyn grumbles, sitting back down – whaddaya want? It the night already?

\- I just wanted to tell you I'm going to sleep over at the Guild from now on, so you don't have to, you know, wait for me or anything. Thank you for helping me out these last few days.

\- Yeah. – Velyn says bluntly, rubbing at his temples.

\- See you around, then? – Drevas offers, opening the door to leave.

\- Yeah. See ya.

The door closes, leaving Velyn to stare blankly at the wall.


	7. The old man

The Guild of Fighters becomes a slightly friendlier place to Drevas as he spends his days in it, training and doing small jobs. After a few days of swinging his sword around, Eydis finally lets him take on some rats in some old woman's cellar, and when he comes back, continues giving him rodent extermination jobs. Drevas feels slightly disappointed over his potential being wasted on deratization, but a part of him is glad that he hasn't gotten strapped with a ton of responsibility as of yet.

After his fifth training with Fasile, she gives him a slow, calculated nod that, as Drevas has already learned, means she's pleased with his progress.

\- I wasn't going to tell you earlier so it wouldn't go to your head, but you have some talent in you, and you'll sharpen it yet with hard work – she speaks in her odd squeaky voice – you might actually be able to take on a nix-hound this time around.

\- Thank you – Drevas beams a wide smile in her direction. Fasile's lip curves ever so slightly upwards, before she turns around and puts her sword away. This signals she's done with him for the day, and Drevas slowly makes his way upstairs, feeling oddly rejuvenated by the praise and ready to catch some sleep. Crawling under the covers in what practically became his bed, he promises himself he'll travel to Arkngthand the next day and finally get Antabolis' quest over with.

The next day, waking up from a weird and intense dream, he feels more alive than he had in a long while. He jumps out of bed, throws his armor on and starts his journey to the strange ruin, feeling as if his entire life has lead up to this moment.

The morning air is cold and crisp, and Drevas takes big breaths, feeling his chest expand. The wound over his ribs is forgotten – it healed up nicely, and with its disappearance, Drevas' vague fear of adventuring faded as well. He feels invincible as he bravely marches on outside the city gates. Walking past the silt strider, he heads east towards the rising sun, making his way past two bridges and a stretch of a path bordered by flowers and grass. Everything seems peaceful as the Sun shines on his face and the smell of flowers fills the still air, and Drevas is surprised how _pretty_Vvardenfell can be. He'd seen ash-filled canyons and dust storms so far, but he'd missed out on a calm walk through the meadows. It almost reminds him of the rolling green hills of Cyrodiil. The painful memory of his home jolts him out of his daze as he marches on towards Moonmoth Legion Fort.

Soon he reaches the incline he'd been told to follow, and in the distance he sees a dwarven bridge. Even further than that – overall about ten minutes walking, he'd wager – he sees ominous dark rocks and an alien-looking construction. He'd never seen a Dwarven ruin this up close, and a strange sense of unease washes over him, like a cold gust of wind. The vague dread only increases as he gets closer to the massive, robust looking bridge. And as he steps onto it, his heart does a somersault – there's a _man_.

The man is old, clad in rusty, banged-up iron armor, with filthy clothes underneath it. He leans against the railing of the bridge, overlooking the foyada beneath it, his shoulders hunched. As Drevas slowly walks, trying to not draw too much attention to himself, the man turns around slowly, with a strange, pained look on his face. His eyes – weary and circled by innumerable wrinkles – light up with the vigor of a young man as soon as he spots Drevas. Quickly – _too_ quickly – he pulls out an axe and runs straight at Drevas with a shriek, and Drevas realizes he won't be able to talk his way out of fighting this man. Time grinds to a halt as he steels himself and pulls out his sword, remembering everything Fasile has taught him.

\- You dare oppose Snowy Granius? – the old man screams, foaming at the mouth and madly swinging his axe around. Drevas ducks swiftly as the axe zooms past his long ear, and stabs at the man's arm as he prepares to swing the axe again. Granius yells and slams the axe with all his might into Drevas, who barely manages to roll away and attacks again, aiming for the man's side this time. The sword slips into a hole in Granius' armor and he chokes, the foam on his lips suddenly turning a bright shade of red. He staggers towards Drevas, pushing the sword even deeper in his own ribs, and falls on top of him, lively eyes now staring into nothing.

It takes Drevas a second to realize what happened. He shoves the old man away and retrieves his sword, now covered in blood halfway to the hilt. He stands up and stares at the corpse for a few seconds, mind blanking, watching the puddle of crimson form under his opponent, and not yet understanding what he'd done. But when he realizes, Drevas breaks into a mad dash back to Balmora, only bothering to put his sword back in its sheath halfway through the meadow path. The Sun is hidden by a cloud now, and instead of the flowers, he only smells blood in the air.

Back on the streets of the city, he quickly realizes he's covered in blood and his panicking brain decides the best course of action is to go to Velyn's house. _Somehow... he can help_. His breathing is fast and shallow as he bangs on the door of the apartment. Velyn opens the door after what feels like an eternity and narrows his red eyes at Drevas. He doesn't care to explain himself as he pushes past Velyn and sits on the chair, burying his face in his hands.

\- Okay, I'm listenin'. Who'd you gut? – Velyn sits down on the other chair, not bothering to hide the grin in his voice as he ogles the blood.

\- I don't know. There was a man, an old Imperial, near Arkngthand, and he attacked me and I had to protect myself... I didn't want to _kill_ him. – Drevas responds weakly, feeling his eyes well up with tears. The enthusiasm he'd felt in the morning is gone as he relives the moment of the light in the man's eyes fading, again and again.

\- First kill, eh? Always the sweetest, ain't it – Velyn laughs – Weren't you in prison? Thought you've done a few people in already. What's the big deal?

\- No, I've never _killed_ anyone! I was in prison for pickpocketing off the wrong person. I got too greedy. And I regret it every day, because it _landed_me in this mess! – Drevas cries out, rubbing at his eyes with frustration. Velyn picks up a bottle and listens to him intently. – He was this old man, he came at me screaming and I... I stabbed him. He would probably have killed _me_, but... I never wanted to kill anyone!

\- So he was, uh, a bandit? – Velyn asks bluntly as Drevas breathes a shaky sigh, wiping a stray tear from his eye and nodding. – And you defended yourself well, and got rid of roadside scum, and you're _sad_ over it? I think I see yer problem.

\- What's my problem? – Drevas speaks after a second, quietly, with the sobriety only a thoroughly shaken up man can have.

\- Yer a _coward_, Drev. A right coward. You've lived yer whole life sittin' around and stealin' coin by coin, then you get caught the _second_ you try to do somethin' bigger – Velyn explains, waving the bottle as if to enunciate the words – you can't even do thievin' right. And now when it's time to be brave, you can't do that right either. What _are_ you good at?

Drevas stares at him as he talks, the grief rapidly turning into rage.

\- Look – Velyn continues, seemingly oblivious - he was a bandit. He attacked you. If anyone asks, it was self-defense, but no one's gonna ask, and you know why? Welcome to yer first run-in with Vvardenfell lowlifes. I'm tellin' ya, you did the world a favor, gettin' rid of him. And you're not even _hurt_ this time.

\- He was a person, too! – Drevas objects, getting up from the chair indignantly. – I'm not a coward for thinking that people have a right to live, am I? Or is that part of your disgusting worldview, cheering for every dead Imperial?

\- It ain't _like_ that, Drev – Velyn explains with an uncharacteristic patience – The way it's gonna go, you'll kill plenty yet. Mark my words. This land has a way of forcin' yer hand. Especially if you're so hellbent on that Dwemer ruin. It'll change you. Just you wait...

Not waiting for the ending of Velyn's hazy prophecy, Drevas turns around to leave, slamming the door on his way out. The rage still throbs in his chest as he walks to Arkngthand the second time today. It's colder now, as the wind picks up and the Sun is covered by a cloud. It's colder yet when he walks across the dwarven bridge, avoiding looking at his victim who's still there, face down in the dust.

He reaches Arkngthand and looks up at the frightening ruin, lying amongst the boulders like a forgotten, sleeping beast.


	8. The lockbox

The rusted iron door gives a long creak as Drevas struggles to push it open. It's massive, carved with a design that has been faded by weather and time, and so heavy that he decides to keep it ajar in case he needs to make a quick getaway later. Fresh air and light fills the ancient hallway and he notices there are a few lit torches lining the crumbling walls, tipping him off to the bandit menace Velyn talked about the other day. He cautiously continues down the hall, keeping an eye out for any stray movement and filling his lungs with an odd scent of warm metal, like sniffing a blacksmith's anvil – it's foreign, but recognizable.

It feels weird actually being in one of those ruins, Drevas notes. It's considerably less stuffy than he'd thought, and there's a distant muffled sound that sounds more like a conversation than the clanging of ancient Dwarven constructs. He's not sure whether to be relieved that he doesn't have to face some sort of terrifying mechanical beast, but it still doesn't do much to calm his nerves as he slowly walks the poorly lit corridor. The talking gets louder as he stumbles upon a cavernous room. The hallway becomes a natural stone path leading down into what has been made into a cave system by countless years, old copper lining the remains of archaic walls, but unmistakably a natural cave. There's a ledge that leads to a door relatively close, and at the bottom of the cave, two rough-looking men are sitting down on crates and discussing something loudly.

\- No, man, it doesn't _mean_ that Molag Bal, uh, had kids with Vivec. It's a _mepathor_, you see. - a Redguard man clad in common-looking clothes explains patiently.

\- A what now? – the other man chimes in, passing a bottle of something to his comrade.

\- A... look, you know how I says I'll kill ya when you cheat at cards, but I don't actually _mean_ it, you know? – the Redguard says, waving his arms, as Drevas hugs the wall and crawls very slowly towards the stone ledge – that's the thing here too. It _says_ that Vivec laid with Molag Bal and whatever, but it _means_... well, I dunno what it means. You should prob'ly ask a priest.

-I dunno, man. They kicked me outta the Temple for sneezin' during a ceremony once. Ash got in me nose – his friend gives a dismal remark, as Drevas quickly enters the iron door, swinging it fast so it wouldn't make noise. He shuts it very carefully, breathing a sigh of relief. But as he turns around, he comes face to face with a tall, bald Imperial.

The room is well stocked with crates, he notes, haphazardly strewn between old copper pipes, piled on top of each other so high they almost reach the ceiling, which makes Drevas think it must be important. A bandit loot cache, maybe? But the man standing there definitely doesn't seem friendly – the lines of his face seem to be trapped in a permanent scowl as he fixes his gaze on the young Dunmer.

\- Looking for this? – his gruff voice sounds out as the man flashes Drevas an interesting-looking small box. It catches the light from a nearby lantern and flashes in a way only an intricate design can, and Drevas cannot hide the sudden gleam in his eye. This must be it, the lockbox he's looking for! But a small smile comes across the man's face, and is gone in an instant, like the sun peeking out for a second, only to be obscured by a cloud again. He sticks the small box in his pocket and takes a step towards the elf, his eyes now betraying a solemn resolve, and Drevas sees the man is poised to attack.

-Wait! Please, wait a second! – Drevas yells out as he's gripped by panic, but the words feel pointless before they even leave his lips. There's something in the man's eyes that cannot be swayed by pleading, a kind of severity Drevas has only seen once before – in the eyes of the Imperial guard who hauled him into that damned prison, back in his homeland of Cyrodiil. And before he can speak again, an axe is raised – before he can react, it comes crashing down into his left shoulder, sending jolts of pain down his arm. Drevas yells in anguish as his armor does little to soften the blow of the heavy chunk of metal, trying to duck out of the way as the pain worsens with every movement and the wound starts to bleed profusely. The axe is raised again, and before he even knows it, Drevas' instincts kick in. He jumps out of the way and dives head-first behind the huge pile of crates, skittering away like the sneak thief he's supposed to be.

\- Come back here and fight me like a man, you elven coward! – the voice thunders around him as Drevas curses his lack of foresight. Not only does he not want to fight anyone, the injury seems to be quite debilitating and is bleeding heavily, decreasing his chances of making it out of here alive by the minute. He desperately thinks of what to do as the heavy footsteps get closer, and his thoughts focus on the thing he came here to get – the small dwarven lockbox, nested safely in the man's pocket.

Only one wild option appears to him, clear as day. It's a great risk, Drevas thinks, but he has no more time to think. Struck with a sudden determination, he makes a leap to the side as the axe crashes into a crate, jumps over the pile and hastily creeps behind the man while he's busy breaking down the clumsy pile. Summoning all his years of experience in robbing hapless tourists on the streets of the big city, Drevas slips his hand into the man's pocket, his fingers clamping over the metallic surface of the lockbox. As soon as his hand grips the small item, he's running madly towards the exit, before the man even has a chance to turn around.

He dashes faster than he'd ever ran in his life, heart beating a mile a minute, hearing voices screaming after him, footsteps, and the slamming of doors. They're right behind him, Drevas knows it – death is a foot behind his back, in the form of a steel axe in the back of his head, a skillfully placed arrow, even a thrown rock that could make him stumble. But he runs through the steel door he left ajar, and keeps running, not once looking behind himself until he collapses on the road, his blood dripping down on the beaten path.

He's close to the Moonmoth Legion Fort and the bandits are nowhere to be seen. Drevas slowly sits up, jarred by the dizziness he's feeling, and realizes he's lost a lot of blood. He pulls out a healing potion he got from the Guild and splashes a liberal portion on the wound, drinking the rest in one gulp. The wound stops bleeding and the pain gets slightly better as Drevas breathes a sigh of relief. His mind drifts to the box he's still clutching in his hand, and he raises it up, noting the beautiful, intricate metallic design, made of interlocking bands of some metal he can't recognize. It shines in the afternoon sunlight and Drevas wistfully remembers the ordeal he had to go through to get this small thing, wondering if it would be worth it, but the shadow of doubt won't leave his mind as he gets up and slowly makes the long walk to Balmora.

Back in the Guild, he hands the box over to Antabolis and is almost too out of it to listen to his speech on the Nerevarine and the Sixth House. He grabs the papers Antabolis gives him, thanks the man and turns to leave. As he's walking away, he spots Fasile, whose eyes immediately trail to the wound in his shoulder. She walks up and raises her eyebrows at him, and Drevas feels the sudden need to explain himself as the memories of today hit again.

\- I killed someone today – he blurts out as the memory of the man bleeding on the road pops into his head. There's an odd feeling in his chest, like he was standing on the edge of a huge cliff.

\- Elaborate – Fasile says calmly.

\- A bandit attacked me and I fought back. It's the first person I've ever killed. I don't know how to feel about it – Drevas says, a strange helplessness rising within him. Fasile does a small nod, as if urging him to continue talking. – I know it was self-defense, but actually ending a man's life... it feels so heavy. Like I didn't have the right to do it. Like... I destroyed something sacred, and I can never go back.

Fasile thinks for a moment as Drevas sinks into a nervous silence, and when she speaks up, her voice is gentler than he'd ever heard her talk before.

\- Life is a gamble, and you can never be sure if you're doing the right thing, Drevas. As a warrior, you have to learn to accept that risk. In this life, and in this line of work, there will be times when you'll have to kill. You must trust your superior, and above all, you must trust your instincts.

\- I can't stop thinking about it, though. What if the man I killed had a family? People who cared about him? - he says quietly, as if wanting judgement to be passed.

\- As a warrior, you are a force to be reckoned with. You were attacked, and you were the bringer of a good death for this man. Life is sacred, yes, but death is sacred as well. Maybe you need more context on that. Have you ever been to the Temple?

\- No – Drevas answers, remembering the strange conversation of the two bandits.

\- The Dunmer honor the dead more than any folk I've ever met. You should pay a visit to the Temple to learn more about this. Not only is death sacred, it is oddly beautiful. _The dead are not under the earth. Their spirits are in the restless wind, in the fire's voice, in the foot-smoothed step. – _she quotes, pausing for a moment as Drevas listens intently. – It might calm your nerves, if you go. Connect to the land and your ancestors a bit. You seem like you need it.

Drevas thanks her and leaves, the words resonating in his mind. He decides to give the documents over to Caius first, and visit the Temple when his schedule allows for it. But before he does that, he pays a quick visit to Velyn's house, just to tell him that he managed to not kill anyone else in the ruin, even if he might have had the chance to. But the door is locked, and the elf is nowhere to be seen.

Drevas doesn't dwell on this. He turns around and slowly heads over to Caius Cosades' house, feeling as if he took the first step on a long, long road towards freedom.


	9. The mission

_Author's note: a chapter detailing Drevas' life until he met Velyn._

* * *

\- It's all over, lawbreaker!

Drevas couldn't help but feel a sense of dread creep up his spine as the guard in meticulously polished armor gave his carefully practiced speech. The nausea was only exacerbated by the fact there were around 20 people around him now, watching this display and murmuring in disapproval. The rich man he'd tried to pickpocket just a few minutes prior was standing by smugly, muttering something to one of his equally well-dressed friends, who snickered into a gloved hand. The elf suddenly felt very small, sensing the judging stares of the people of the Elven Gardens District of the Imperial City on himself. This was definitely shaping up to not be his day.

It had been a beautiful day, the Loredas that changed everything. Drevas had woken up around 1 pm, had a meager breakfast of bread and leftover wine, and soaked up some sunshine on the lackluster beach of the Imperial Waterfront where he squatted in an abandoned building. He shared the house with three people, but the cast was ever-changing, except for his mother. She was always hanging around, charging people a penny for a palm-reading and two for a detailed fortune-telling. The other two people were a Nord drunk who, when not angry and yelling at passers-by next to The Bloated Float, was a jolly good chum to swap stories with, and an Imperial girl, Alessia. She was down on her luck and had been living in this house for a while now, and as it happens, Drevas had an eye on her. She was only modestly pretty, but her smile could light up a room, and she was a good listener for Drevas' tall tales of becoming a rich man one day. Money was always on his mind, even on this seemingly carefree day. Sitting on the shoreline and listening to the waves crash against the sand, the elf thought how to make some quick cash tonight.

Growing up in a poor district of a major city is seldom a good thing. Drevas' mother always reminded her son to stay out of trouble, but lacked the drive to really raise her child – it seemed she'd say those words just because she felt like she had to. And since her son never met his father, there was no one else to teach little Drevas in the ways of righteousness. By the age of 18, he'd gotten pretty good at fishing citizens' valuables out of their pockets. A penny here, a dagger there, always careful to not get caught. He was good at talking, too, and could play the lute somewhat, mostly to entertain drunk travelers and tourists for a bit of cash. Sometimes he'd play it to Alessia in the evening, lazily strumming the strings and singing an impromptu sing about love, or knights in faraway lands, or princesses in their towers. She'd always listen to it quietly, wide eyed, never interrupting until he played his final chord. And she'd always say it was the most beautiful song she'd ever heard, with such innocent sincerity Drevas just had to believe her every time.

Maybe he'd gotten too cocky, no longer always erring on the side of caution, assured he'd never get caught. Or maybe he wanted to get that lucky break, and get hold of a ring he could give to Alessia to finally ask her to be his. Whatever the reason, Drevas ventured out to the Elven Gardens district on the afternoon of that fateful Loredas. He'd walked the stone streets carefully and deliberately, with movements practiced a thousand times before. Mindful to not stand out among the rich people taking an afternoon stroll, but poised and ready to slip his hand into a particularly heavy pouch. It was usually a quick and fruitful affair. But his luck had to fail eventually.

As he walked next to an upper-class looking Breton, he sized the man up. Stocky, pale, dressed from head to toe in red velvet, keeping his nose to the sky and taking slow steps towards The King and Queen Tavern. An easy target, if Drevas had ever seen one. Without even thinking, he deftly slipped his hands into the man's pocket, feeling around for anything that was heavy or had a metallic coldness to it. His fingers touched something that was most definitely a gem, and a large one. He could feel his blood pumping – this was it, this is what he'd been waiting for – and his excitement cost him just an extra second of keeping his hand in the man's pocket. In that second, a clammy hand gripped his wrist, with a strength Drevas hadn't expected of this snooty half-baked noble.

-Guards! _Guards!_ – the man screeched immediately. Not only could Drevas not free himself from the grasp, heads were starting to turn, and very soon there were eyes on him from every direction. Even if he ran now, they knew what he looked like. They could catch him. Before he even heard the guard's heavy footsteps, he knew this was the end.

Pretty soon, Drevas was behind bars somewhere in the bowels of the Imperial Prison. He tried to calm himself. After all, pickpocketing isn't that big of a crime. They'd let him go soon. But a nagging feeling in the back of his head told him he royally messed up, and the longer he sat in the little cell, the more the walls seemed to close in. What if they forgot about him here? Nobody was coming for what felt like hours. Wasn't there supposed to be a trial? Some information about how long he was going to spend here, at least?

When a guard finally showed, the grin on his face said more than the words that came after it. Drevas listened in a sort of daze, aware that the now familiar sinking feeling in his stomach was coming, and it would split his insides apart. _The man you attempted to rob_, the guard remarked gleefully, _was a very rich merchant from Wayrest, and the gem in his pocket was priceless not even by your standards, sneak thief_. He had to say no more – Drevas knew he would not be coming back to his mother and Alessia anytime soon.

When the guard left, Drevas slumped on the filthy bedroll, defeated. It felt like the fire in his chest had gone out, smothered by the heavy air of his cell. He didn't dare think about what comes next, or how his life would look from now on, or how his mother in the abandoned building that started to feel like home is anticipating his return, or how much he resented not telling his girl of his true feelings while he still could. He didn't even have the energy to wonder if he'd ever see those two again.

He closed his eyes, clearing his mind until the darkness embraced him.

* * *

There's not much to do in an average cell within the Imperial Prison. Drevas spent about three months carving lines in the wall, feeding rats stale bread, and laying down feeling sorry for himself. He felt like he'd aged a lifetime in those three months, the minutes crawling like sloads, utter loneliness crushing his spirit. He would go days without eating sometimes – he got nauseous every time he thought about his predicament for too long and he didn't really need the energy, anyway – and his ribs started showing, pale skin stretched over bone. He wondered what his mother would say if she saw him like this, a shadow of his former jovial self. He was such a young man, and already it appeared he'd lost all hope, trapped in the darkness like a cockroach.

Waking up from a restless fever dream, he heard footsteps coming towards his cell, in a time not scheduled for his daily rations of dry bread and water. The thought of what that means didn't even cross his mind. He had difficulty even looking up when a burly guard slammed the hilt of his steel sword on the cell door.

-Get up! Time to go.

Drevas shakily stood up, not allowing himself to wonder if he's being released by some miracle, or if his mother finally found him and was allowed to visit – two things that felt equally impossible. He hobbled after the guard, his legs nearly giving out twice. Exercise, or even getting up from his bedroll, hadn't been a priority lately. There were a million questions in his head that just coalesced into a big confused mess. He was equally as confused when the guard handed him over to someone above his own rank, or when he was asked a few short questions about his date of birth and his father, the answers written down on a formal-looking sheet of paper. The prison officer nodded slightly and told Drevas to stay put, disappearing through the door and leaving the elf to stand there in perplexed silence. The guard side-eyed him as he kept one hand on the hilt of his blade.

After an uncomfortable half-hour in which Drevas wondered what time it was and regretted not eating his bread ration yesterday, the official returned with a few papers, sat down at his desk and got to sorting and stamping even more paperwork. The sight of such proceedings made him uneasy. Whatever it was, it was serious. Imperial law officers wouldn't fill out paperwork unless it was absolutely necessary. The anticipation made his head spin.

At long last, the officer looked up at the skinny elf and said in a deadpan voice a sentence that cut the silence like a knife and nearly did Drevas in right then and there.

-It's your lucky day.

The next few minutes were a haze. Drevas received a detailed explanation of where he was going, why he was going there, something something the Emperor, Morrowind, sailing East. He barely grasped anything the officer said, it felt too surreal. The prospect of being let go he could understand, but the conditions of his release, and his subsequent confinement in a country he'd never gone to, were too much to take in all at once. He blinked in the officer's direction. His confusion must have been obvious on his face, because the Imperial man repeated the key points of his detailed speech, slightly annoyed.

-You're going to Morrowind to carry out the Emperor's orders. You'll be leaving immediately. This is a mission of utmost importance and you are expected to carry out the will of the Emperor to the death. Do you understand? Good. Here's the forms you'll need. Do not lose them.

The guard clutched Drevas' bony shoulder in a vicelike grip, as if the young man was in a condition to run anywhere. As the officer handed him a stack of papers, he spoke in a very serious tone.

-You'll be receiving orders from the Emperor's agents from now on. We will know if you attempt to circumvent this mission. I don't need to explain that directly disobeying the Emperor constitutes treason. Now get him on the ship.

As Drevas stepped out into the cold air of the dawn, blinking in the rays of the Sun for the first time in months, he saw a ship anchored in the prison dock, with several guards waiting for him. He was quickly ushered on it, and before he was pushed into the cabin, he gazed westward onto the Imperial City for what could be one last time. He saw the White-Gold Tower, the walls of the inner city, the sunlight gently reaching his Waterfront where the only two people he cared about lived. The realization hit him; this could be the last time he ever sees it.

He wanted so badly to run, jump into the water and escape somehow. Tear down the door of the old abandoned house, grab his mother and Alessia and run anywhere but here, hide, cross the border. It could be done, it would be hard, but maybe it could be done. They could start a new life in a country where they'd escape the long shadow of the Imperial law, hiding and lying for the rest of their lives. But just as this thought came, it was gone, as the rough hands of the guard pushed him under the deck before he even mentally said goodbye to the only home he'd ever known.

He was leaving now, sailing East, to the strange home of his ancestors.

* * *

_Wake up. We're here. Why are you shaking? Are you okay? Wake up._

Drevas jolted from his sleep, his heart pounding and his breath ragged, feeling dizzy and overwhelmed by the strange visions he saw in his dream. But they quickly faded, replaced by the same slight confusion he'd felt for a few nights now, realizing he wasn't waking in his cold, damp cell, but in the cabin of a ship heading to the unknown. His cellmate, a rugged-looking Dunmer, stood over him with a slight look of concern in his one eye. Drevas had learned the man's name was Jiub and he was a killer, a realization that unnerved him slightly. Jiub wasn't much for conversation most of the time, but Drevas was just happy to have someone to talk to after months spent alone, with only rats and regrets for company.

\- I heard them say we've reached Morrowind. I'm sure they'll let us go.

A sense of slight dread fell upon the cabin as Drevas anxiously stared at the door. Sure, he was looking forward to stepping out in the open again, but he couldn't help but think what would happen now. Would the Emperor send him to his death sooner than he expected? The papers he got from the Imperial prison officer didn't say much. He read them over and over, but they just seemed like boilerplate forms to him. Soon, there was a guard at the door, and Drevas pulled himself up, nodded goodbye to Jiub and followed.

He didn't know what to expect, climbing the stairs to the deck, but anything he could have imagined didn't fit what he saw before him. Instantly, he was hit with the earthy, moldy smell of the swamp. There was a buzzing of mosquitoes in the warm air and a distorted whine of something Drevas couldn't recognize as a sound any human or animal could make. The boards of the dock creaked and felt damp under his feet, and the village before him was a ramshackle collection of buildings that made his Waterfront look like the Talos Plaza District. To his horror, he quickly found out the distorted whine came from a giant bug-like creature very close to where he was currently standing. His first thought was to get out of this dump and locate an actual city as fast as possible.

Drevas continued into the Census and Excise building, dealing with bureaucratic stuff as fast as he could, trying to get the show on the road and eat something other than stale bread for the first time in months. Maybe it was the excitement of standing out in the open again, but his stomach started complaining. On his way over to the second building, he snatched up some of the crab meat that was sitting out in the open and shoved it in his mouth, figuring it was going to go bad anyway. He also pulled a rusty dagger from the table, since one can never be too careful in a foreign country and it seemed no one would really miss it. He didn't dare touch the rest of the stuff in the room, thinking he'd tempted fate enough for a while, but he did find a nice ring in a barrel outside the building, which he promptly sold to a High Elf in the local tradehouse after chatting him up for a bit. He did always have a knack for selling things at a fair price.

-Say, Arrille, how would one get to Bal-mo-rah? – Drevas inquired, flipping through the release papers he got. Most of them were in a code he couldn't understand, but he did have clear instructions to locate one Caius Cosades. If that got him out of this vaguely disgusting place, he was willing to do it immediately.

-I recommend you use the silt strider. You don't seem like you'd be in a condition to walk all the way there. It's the safest way to get to any city, really. Just go to the ledge next to the giant bug, you can't miss it, it's the size of a -

Arrille stopped mid-sentence, laughing at the horrified look on the outlander's face. It took a few minutes to explain to Drevas that _no_, he wasn't joking and _yes_, it would safely get him to his destination. It was getting painfully obvious that it would take a while for the young elf to get used to this weird new place and at least attempt to fit in. With a sigh, Drevas said goodbye to the shopkeeper and went to climb on a giant bug, which he thought was the weirdest thing he'd done in a good number of years.

As the silt strider slowly trotted along the ashy path to Balmora, Drevas pensively gazed out to the area around him. It looked muddy, ashy, and dangerous. The flora was stuff he'd never seen before, with weird shrubs, giant mushrooms, and intertwining dark roots. The stench of the swamp hung heavily in the air. He hoped the wildlife wouldn't kill him before the Emperor's enigmatic quest had a chance to.

When he finally got to Balmora, the sun had gone down. Drevas decided to walk around town a bit first. He quickly realized something was wrong about his appearance, or clothes, or the way he walked, maybe? He didn't like the way the Hlaalu guards stared at him, red eyes visible through their odd bonemold armor, following his every move. Even the townspeople seemed on edge, avoiding him and giving him odd looks. The entire town gave him the creeps, and he still didn't know how to find Cosades.

It was starting to get pretty dark and Drevas was hungry, lost and slightly panicking. If he didn't want to be lost in a strange city, he definitely didn't want to be lost in a strange city after dark. He decided to go into the first inn he found, and took a right turn to go near the silt strider, figuring it's as good of a direction as any, and suddenly spotted a dark figure on the stairs of what looked like a bar, staring directly at him.

If the glares of other denizens of Balmora had been unnerving, this one was downright frightening. Even from a distance, Drevas could see malicious intent in the man's eyes, and a primal part of his brain told him to _look away _and_ just keep walking_.

-Bit late to be wanderin' around, isn't it… _outlander_?


	10. The ancestors

Cosades seems more than satisfied with the notes provided, not even asking Drevas _why_ it took like a month to acquire them. The elf gets a firm pat on the back that almost knocks him over and is immediately saddled with more things to do.

\- Hop on over to the Balmora Mages Guild and get Sharn gra-Muzgob to tell you what she knows about the Nerevarine – Caius says in his commanding voice that always seems uncanny to Drevas when combined with the aura of abject poverty the man exudes. - She'll have some silly errand for you. Do what she asks. And report back when she's given you the information.

\- Yes sir – Drevas says firmly, determined to get out of the house as soon as possible to get away from the alcohol fumes that permeate the room and make him slightly dizzy. This appears to be enough, and he is released. He takes a deep breath as he steps out into the fresh air, wondering what to do next as the afternoon sun pleasantly warms up his ears.

He _could_ go to Sharn, but he doesn't feel like risking it with her errand at the moment, just in case it's something that needs to be done _immediately_ and cannot be lazily stretched out over the course of the upcoming few weeks, at least after a good night's rest. He also _could_ go visit Velyn and brag about managing to not kill anyone in Arkngthand, but he's not sure if the elf will be home yet, or be in a proper condition to fully appreciate how hard he's getting made a fool of. He finally remembers Fasile's speech about the Temple. Feeling like he'd worked hard enough for the last few weeks, he decides to make a detour before calling it a night.

The Balmora Temple is pleasantly cool and quiet on the inside. Drevas has a somewhat similar feeling to stepping into an Imperial Temple back in Cyrodiil, only there's something profoundly _different_ about it; maybe it's the smell, like hot coals or a candle that's been extinguished, mixed with a sort of spicy incense he can't really place. The ceiling arches overhead in an unfamiliar way that reminds Drevas more of a tomb than a place of worship, but remembering Fasile's words, he figures it may as well be a tomb. The air is stale and silent, only disturbed by low, murmured prayers of a few Dunmer kneeling down next to ash pits, or next to adobe pillars covered in strange art of humanoid figures. He spots a skull in one of the ash pits, slightly perturbed. A Dunmer woman spots him and walks up to him with a smile.

\- Three blessings to you. You are new here, yes? An outlander, perhaps? – she says in a tired, gravelly voice. Drevas nods, not wanting to disturb the silence that seems oddly sacred, like the wrath of strange gods will come down upon him if he does not respect this place.

\- Welcome. I am Feldrelo Sadri. You are free to stay as long as you want – the priestess smiles weakly, reaching for one pocket of her expensive looking robe and pulling out a small book – since you're here, would you like some reading material, to familiarize yourself with the Tribunal and the Temple?

Drevas accepts it, muttering a small _thank you_ as Feldrelo nods and leaves. He glances at the cover_. The Pilgrim's Path_. It seems like a standard pamphlet one would get when entering a temple, and the familiarity of being offered religious pamphlets immediately makes him feel more at ease. This is just another chapel, after all. He sticks the small book in his bag and looks around the place some more.

The ash pits are low and surrounded by candles, some lit and some unlit, and Drevas can see an old Dunmer woman kneel and light one with a small fire from her palm. She stays there for a while, seemingly praying or meditating. The remains of bodies burned in the pits don't seem to disturb anyone – whereas in Cyrodiil people would hurry to hide all the traces of a body inside a cold tomb, here they're openly displayed, without the weird fear of skeletons Imperials have. Drevas starts to understand what Fasile meant by ancestor worship. This is unlike any other tomb he'd been in. He went to the catacombs in a local Imperial chapel once as a child, on a dare, with his friends snickering outside as he sneaked around the dreadful place in the dead of night, and ran out as soon as he heard the slightest noise. The tomb was a place where the living weren't allowed – it was barricaded off, guarded, used in the scary stories children tell each other in the dark. But here, there was none of that; just people calmly meditating, the pleasant smell of incense, and an odd warmth that embraced him as any fear and discomfort slowly melted away.

He ponders if he belongs here for a moment. Yes, he's a Dunmer, but he never _knew_ his ancestors; he knew his mother, who never told him either about his father or anyone from the family. He took her surname – Andaren – without questioning it or thinking about it. But standing here, he thinks about them, figuring that they all came from Vvardenfell originally. He walks upon the ground that his ancestors lived in now, and even if he does not know them, he feels _accepted_ for the first time since being recognized in the Fighters Guild.

He walks up to one of the ash pits and kneels down next to an unlit candle. He knows a bit of Destruction magic by simply being a Dunmer, never having practiced it, and doubts he'll be able to produce a flame. But as he stretches his palm out towards the candle, the odd warmth embraces him again, and a small spark ignites the wick. He stays there for a while, taking in the long, comfortable silence. He tries to think of a prayer he could say, though nothing comes to mind, and he just meditates on the past and his future for a while, reflecting on everything that led up to this moment, feeling calm and cozy in a way he'd seldom felt in this land.

_Live in One World with your spirits. Honor the spirits within and without you. Do not grieve for the dead. Take shelter in their arms, and pay heed to their words._

After maybe half an hour, he gets up and heads back to the Fighters Guild, ready for a good night's sleep; and as he finally dozes off under the covers, he wonders if, whatever destiny may await him, he will be able to make his ancestors proud.

The Mages Guild smells like the air after a thunderstorm, but Sharn gra-Muzgob takes up an entire corner of it – and as Drevas carefully walks up to her, he doubts the putrid stench can just be attributed to the fact she's an Orc. She whips around and gives him a death glare.

\- No. No interruptions! – she screeches - How many times... Oh. You are one of Caius' associates?

Drevas barely keeps it together as she details the quest she has for him.

\- Hold on, are you asking me to break into an _ancestral tomb?_ – he stammers.

\- Don't worry about it. You're not even from around these parts, what do you care? It's primitive superstition, that's all. Just don't get caught – Sharn says apathetically, handing him a scribbled-over map that leads to the Andaren ancestral tomb. It seems to Drevas arguing won't do much, so he accepts it and walks off, uncertainty raising in his mind. He sighs deeply as he walks up the incline back outside and wonders how he's going to solve this conundrum. It appears to him as good of a time as any to visit Velyn.

The door is unlocked, and the elf is lying face down on the bed, raising his head slightly and wincing as Drevas barges in, coughs and jumps to open the window.

\- What have you been _doing_ in here? It smells like you spilled an entire bottle of cheap wine and then puked all over the walls – he complains, picking up a rag from a shelf and waving it around in an effort to air the room out.

\- Had a busy night – Velyn drawls, slowly sitting up and cringing as the midday sunlight hits his eyes.

\- I tried to visit you yesterday to tell you some good news, but you weren't in. So what was your _busy night_ like, hmm? Getting extra drunk, by the looks of it – Drevas says cheerfully, sitting on a chair as Velyn gives him a tired stare.

\- Somethin' like that.

\- Fine, keep it to yourself. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you I managed to avoid killing anyone at Arkngthand and _still_ finished the job I was given – Drevas says with pride, positively beaming at the Dunmer.

\- Beginner's luck. But y'kno. Keep it up, I s'pose.

\- You know, it's probably because you're hungover as hell, but I was kind of hoping you'd be more upset about it – Drevas laughs.

\- I ain't _upset_. I was never upset. When I said you'd kill again, I was just statin' _facts_. Nobody _wants_ to kill, it's just somethin' you get forced into. – Velyn explains, rubbing his temples and heaving a sigh.

\- Isn't it a thing you can avoid, though? You know what I did, Vel? I sneaked and ran. I _could_ have fought and possibly killed someone, but I chose not to.

\- So you ran off like a damn coward and you're tryin' to sell this as a _good_ thing? – Velyn laughs weakly.

\- A coward that doesn't have any blood on their hands. You should actually be proud of me.

\- I dunno if _proud_ is the right word, Drev, but you know what – Velyn looks at him with a vague sadness in his eyes – if you can pull off doin' things in this land without wonderin' what things coulda been if you done them differently, I'm happy fer you.

\- What a strange thing to say – Drevas laughs – I don't suppose you'll elaborate?

The question doesn't get answered as Velyn lies back down and covers his face with his pillow, as if trying to signal to Drevas that he's _done talkin'_. Drevas gets up and is almost out the door when he remembers the thing he'd been trying to put off.

\- Oh, there's another thing. I need your advice on something.

\- S'what I do – the muffled voice behind the pillow answers – make it quick.

\- I have orders to go into an ancestral tomb and retrieve a skull. How do I... do that?

Velyn suddenly sits up, throwing off the pillow and staring daggers at Drevas.

\- Short answer, you _don't._ – he says vehemently – Don't break into tombs. Don't touch any remains. And _don't_ fuck with people's ancestors!

\- It's not like I _want_ to do it – Drevas complains, taken aback at the sudden display of anger – They're orders, that's all. And I _do_ respect ancestors! I actually went to the Temple yesterday-

\- You're new, so I'll make it clearer – Velyn stands up, pointing one finger at the younger elf – messin' with ancestors is worse than killin' someone. So if you do it, I _hope_ you get caught, 'cus whoever finds you will bring you justice fer sure.

\- Look, I'll try to find another way – Drevas says meekly, feeling his skin crawl. – I'll get out of it somehow, I promise.

\- You goddamn better. Now get outta my house.

Back outside, Drevas walks the street slowly, trying to conjure up a plan that doesn't involve breaking one of Morrowind's holiest laws, and coming up empty. He sits on the stairs next to the pawnbroker, ignoring some women chatting nearby, and buries his face in his hands.


	11. The skull

In Balmora, just like the rest of Vvardenfell, there's always a very slight ashfall. One ordinarily wouldn't notice it. It's only visible when looking up in a ray of sunlight and seeing the particles flutter about, as if they were tiny snowflakes. If one is not accustomed to it, though, the air can appear thick and dry, and make breathing like filling the lungs with dust. The ashfall accumulates over time and ranges in severity. That's why the city is always so dusty, and why, after an hour of sitting on stairs with his face in his hands, Drevas has a very thin layer of dust on his body. When he finally snaps out of his daze, it's like an ancient statue has been roused from its eternal slumber.

He could, theoretically, go get the skull. It would be a reasonably easy errand - find the tomb, maybe throw some rocks at old skeletons guarding the place, grab the thing, and run. Give the skull to gra-Muzgob, get your information, and never breathe a word of it to Velyn for as long as you live. It's straightforward enough. But it can't be done. Not after what he felt in that temple yesterday, the connection he felt to the land and its old bones. It's inexplicable, and his logical side weakly protests the decision, but he knows in his heart it's not happening.

He _could_ try to get a random skull and pass it off as Llevule Andrano. He's already figured out Sharn is a necromancer, it doesn't take too much brain power to deduce that. What can she realistically do once she finds out it's not Andrano she's summoning? Complain to the head of the Mages guild, and be executed for her necromancy? Or complain to Caius, who doesn't give a damn about whether she's pleased with the transaction as long as he gets his information? Or maybe, she'd take it out on Drevas. Too risky, he thinks. He's not in the mood to mess with necromancers, or mages in general. Also, he has no idea where to find a skull that's not inside of a tomb or a temple. But the decision has to be made, and he's out of ideas.

He gets up and dusts himself off. No time for this. He's done thinking – it's time to act.

The entire day is spent walking through Balmora, chatting up incredulous shopkeepers, trying to locate a skull. He's either promptly removed from the shop or given a stern talking-to. Not even Caius knows where to get one. Instead, he instructs Drevas to stop wasting time and _just do the mission_. He is becoming increasingly desperate, and while aimlessly patrolling the street, he almost bumps into an old Dunmer.

\- Walk with more dignity, outlander – the raspy voice catches him off-guard. – think of Her grace as you walk, and every movement will fall where She needs it to be.

\- Pardon? – Drevas manages. The Dunmer inspects him with his sunken, dark eyes. His long, gaunt face, with the cheekbones cutting a sharp incline on it, uncomfortably reminds Drevas of the skull he's supposed to acquire.

\- You're troubled, outlander, and it shows when you walk. Surrender yourself to the Three's mercy, and She will imbue you with the dignity you lack.

Drevas apologizes profusely and without effect. This is the third time today a Dunmer has said something weird to him, completely unprompted. He'd known natives were a bit odd from the moment he set foot on the island, but it seems increasingly improbable that he'll fit in anytime soon. And as hopes for fitting in fade away, so does the hope that he'll magically run into a skull in the middle of the city. He makes his way to the Fighter's guild for the night. And he knows very well that there is only one person on the whole island who will hear what he's saying.

The following day, he tries his luck with the Council Club, and surely enough, Velyn is on entrance guard duty.

\- Fancy meeting you here. – Drevas says with a cheerful wave. Velyn appears to have suddenly gone deaf as he inspects the wall of the club, pointedly ignoring the young elf. - Look, this is awkward, but I need your help... again.

-Whatsa matter... tripped and fell on a skeleton while raidin' a tomb? – Velyn growls - Need some _ointments_? Piss off.

-I already told you, I'm not going to break into any tombs – Drevas explains patiently – but that is actually what I wanted to talk about. I need a skull. – he gets a puzzled stare. – Like, a replacement skull. Something I can give the Mages guild person in return for the information I need. I'm sure you know where to get a skull, right? - the longer he keeps talking, the more he realized what a poorly thought out plan this all is, and the rising tinge of panic in his voice betrays it.

\- Sure – Velyn drawls – we'll gut a bandit, cut his head off and burn it, and we gonna, what, make it look like it's 500 years old? Carve some _runes_ into it, all ceremonial-like? What the hell kind of people you in with, anyway? Mages who want old bones... the hell is wrong with you? Can't stick to killin' rats?

\- What do I _do_, Vel? I cannot delay this forever. I _have_ to do this. – Drevas' voice is cracking with desperation and Velyn gives him an incredulous look.

\- _Why_, though? You're not even _in_ the Mages guild. _Why_ do you do this weird shit? You know what, forget it – he throws his arms up defeatedly - I know you're not gonna tell me. Don't know why I _bothered_ askin'. Figure it out yourself.

The oppressive silence returns as Velyn turns his back to the outlander and becomes very interested in his bottle of sujamma. The air hangs heavy around them, and Drevas comes to a realization he'd been actively avoiding. Effectively, he's a spy for the Emperor, and isn't supposed to freely divulge information on what he's doing. But this is a last ditch effort. And so, he makes a decision to start trusting.

\- I have orders... from the Emperor - he starts as a derisive snort issues from Velyn – no, I _actually_ do. I'm an outlander from Cyrodiil, and I've been sent here on a mission by the Emperor himself.

\- Right. 'course you have. So what's old Septim say? – Velyn asks with a hint of irony, taking a swig from his bottle.

\- The reason I've got to talk to the Mages guild person is to get information on the Nerevarine – he starts as Velyn nearly chokes on his drink and starts coughing. He sounds like he's about to keel over for a good ten seconds, as Drevas stands there, wondering if he's made the right choice.

\- What do you know about the Nerevarine? – Velyn asks in a hushed whisper once he's able to breathe again – Why's the Emperor need to know that kind of stuff?

\- Not much. Look, I'm just doing what I've been told. I didn't even read the papers they gave me, I'm just the errand boy.

\- So, you gettin' information on our holy ancients for some n'wah emperor? These are sacred traditions, Drev, and ain't nobody gonna tell you about this unless they have to. Dangerous stuff. You'll have the Temple Ordinators at your doorstep _right_ quick if you say that kind of shit. And b'sides, this ain't the kind of stuff you say to people who know nothin' of your culture, or history, or the way we all live in Vvardenfell... this ain't _yours_, do you get me? – he tries to explain.

\- I get you. No, really, I do! But, Velyn, I'll get executed if I don't deliver. I'm only here because the Emperor wants me to be!

\- And who's to say they won't kill you anyway? You go ahead and say all this to your emperor or whatever, and they chop your head off _anyway_ for knowin' too much? – Velyn argues fervently, getting closer to the wall and shooting nervous glances around, as if scared of people eavesdropping.

\- I have been promised a pardon if I do my mission dutifully. Convicted of treason if I don't. So you see my dilemma – Drevas' tone couldn't be drier if he tried.

\- Right. Well, I wouldn't trust that emperor of yours too much, I were you. Outlanders, they'll shut you up. Way I see it, the Emperor sends a spy down to Vvardenfell to dig up information like this, the spy ain't coming back up.

\- I _know_. I know you don't trust the Emperor, and don't trust _me_, and don't trust anyone who isn't from the same corner of the village as you – Drevas raises his voice, ignoring the icy glare he's getting – I know that your entire worldview rests on the idea that we're all treacherous worms and spies, and I _do_ see the irony. But Gods damn it, Velyn, I've lived my whole life in the Emperor's city, and I trust him with my life, and now I'm forced to trust you with it as well. Please... _help_ me with this.

\- Life in Cyrodiil treated you so well, then, huh? Your emperor put you in chains? You come here on _vacation_? – Velyn snarls.

\- I did that to _myself_, Vel. There's no one else to blame. I wasn't _framed_, or set up, I messed up and I'm here to atone for my crimes. And to that end, I don't know what else they'll have me do, but... with this, I need your help. _Please_. – he can't help himself, he's tearing up, and Velyn sinks into a moody silence. It lasts for a while, enough for Drevas to pull himself together and dry his eyes. When Velyn finally speaks, the edge in his voice is smoothed out just a little.

\- Look, I ain't givin' you a skull. That plan is dumb as a box of rocks. But I been thinkin'. Since yesterday when you told me what you need. Tell me who set you up with this... mission, and I'll get you the information.

\- Don't kill them. If they die, I'm dead too. – Drevas says quietly, staring at the road.

\- Yeah, I promise not to. See, unlike your _emperor_, I'm true to my word.

A few hours later, Drevas is sitting in front of the Eight Plates, the rendezvous point Velyn told him to be at, tossing a drake coin in the air in an effort to appear more at ease. He finally sees a familiar tall, dark figure approach.

\- Here – Velyn tosses some papers at him and Drevas catches them in mid-air – that's all she gave me. Don't differ much from what she said.

\- Is... is she okay?

\- Sure. Won't be doing no necromancy from now on, though. Or rat us out. Promised her a pretty slow and painful death, you know. Didn't do nothin' but talk, don't worry, she's all in one piece.

\- I owe you one.

\- You owe me at least five so far. – Velyn grumbles.

\- Listen... do you want to go in, get some food? My treat. You deserve it.

\- I don't need alms from Imperial sycophants – Velyn says bitterly, leaving Drevas to wonder where he learned such a big word – b'sides, I'm busy. Gotta go see a man about a guar.

As they go their separate ways for the night, Drevas decides to sit down and read all of the documents he's got_. If I'm going through all this trouble, I might as well know what it's about_, he thinks to himself. The Nerevarine. Cults. Prosecution. Strange deities, myths, traditions he never knew of before, though he lived just a relatively short trip west his entire life. The texts are straightforward, but the meaning is cryptic, and behind the talk of ancient prophecies he smells trouble coming, like an ash storm on the horizon.


	12. The history

Cosades is characteristically pleased with the information Drevas presents to him. He thumbs through the stack of papers outlining the Nerevarine cult and speaks up.

-I'm promoting you to Blades Apprentice, Drevas. I'd like some time to think how this – he waves the stack of papers – fits in with the Emperor's plans for you. So if you'd like to get in a little freelance adventuring, go ahead. Take some time to polish your skills and flesh out your cover story. Come back in a while, and you'll probably be going to Vivec City, by the looks of it.

-Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. – Drevas says, almost mechanically. After a moment, he remembers something he was going to ask while reading his documents the previous day. – Sir... remember when you told me to freely use your history books? Get some education?

-Hmm? Yes, yes, of course. Here – Cosades turns around and takes a few books off his shelf – Read these, and you'll have a pretty good idea of what's going on here. No point in being part of history if you're too ignorant to understand it.

Drevas thanks him and leaves. With the history books weighing down his bag, he goes to pick out a nice warm spot to do some light reading. It's a beautiful day in sunny Balmora. Walking down the street, he sees that the South Wall Cornerclub has some chairs and tables out, with a few people – not only Dunmer, but Khajiit and Imperials too – sitting outside and chatting. He decides to sit down and order a cup of trama root tea.

An hour later, enjoying the sunshine and slowly flipping the pages of _The_ _War of the First Council_, he feels more comfortable than usual. Yes, he's in a strange land, with maybe three people who don't actively hate his existence, but the day is nice and he's reading an interesting book, so can things really be that dire?

The history makes him think about what it means to be a Dunmer. He'd heard of some of this stuff before coming to Morrowind, but only in passing. Half a year ago, if asked, he'd have no idea what Telvanni means, or even who Almalexia is. No wonder people consider him an outlander. His thoughts turn to figuring out _what_ it is that makes people pin him for an outlander on the spot. Is it the walk? The clothes? He's wearing normal chitin armor, repaired from that unfortunate encounter with the nix-hound, and he has his hair in a tall ponytail, a very common style. Would he look more like a native if he shaved it into a weird tough-guy mohawk, like Velyn does? The thought makes him chuckle.

Maybe it's the skin. He's noticed already that he's a few shades lighter than most Dunmer on the island, and back in Cyrodiil, his skin was lighter than that of his Dunmer mother, too. He figures his father must have been a really light-skinned elf. Maybe it's the voice. When you don't breathe in ash on an everyday basis your entire life, you lack the characteristic raspy tone that's heard everywhere on the island, even among non-Dunmer races. He shrugs it off. _Let them think whatever they want_. After all, if someone will hate him for being an outlander, that's their problem, not his.

In a while, after finishing the book and paying two drakes for the tea, he decides to go do some training in the Fighters guild, and visit Velyn while he's in that part of the town. The Dunmer is sitting on the stairs of his house with a few bottles, looking pretty sauced-up for so early in the morning. Drevas gives him a wave and walks up.

-I feel like I have to apologize. – he starts.

-What fer?

-For not telling you about this whole Nerevarine business sooner. I mean, yeah, I wasn't really supposed to tell anybody, but maybe you deserved to know.

-You make a shitty spy, Drevas, anyone ever told ya that? – a wheezing, raspy laugh issues from Velyn.

-Yes, I suppose so – Drevas laughs and sits down on the stairs, feeling the sun on his face – anyway, thought I'd clear the air. Wanted to check if you're still okay with me being within 5 miles of you as an Imperial spy.

-Should have seen it comin', really – he takes a swig – ain't no one comes to Balmora and does the stuff you do that _isn't_ on some kinda special mission or whatever. Look, I ain't gonna lie, the Imperial stuff bums me out. But, like, you gotta do what you gotta do, y'know?

-So you don't think worse of me for it?

-You're an outlander, man. Figures you'd have to listen to yer emperor. I mean, if Vivec himself got _me_ out of prison, I'd go to Black Marsh and run errands for the man if he asked me to. And some lizard yelling at me over it wouldn't change jack shit. Way I see it, that's kind of this situation, 'cept I'm not a lizard.

-It's really big of you to think that, you know. I'm not sure why, but I had this lingering feeling you'd resent me for what I'm doing. I mean... I'm only a few _actual_ missions into figuring out what the Emperor wants with me, but... not that I don't trust His Majesty, but I have a feeling it's nothing good. - Drevas mutters.

Velyn is silent for a while, taking gulps of his drink a bit faster than normal, as if mentally preparing himself for something by getting drunk. Finally, he breaks the silence.

-D'ya know what I _do_, Drev?

-You are in the Camonna Tong, and you guard the entrance?

-Well, yeah, but there's more to it. Figured you told me yours, so... you know.

-Don't tell me... you also do alchemy stuff for them? – Drevas laughs as Velyn mutters a curse and swings the bottle in his direction.

-_Quiet_. I'm, uhh, their man on the street. The crew wants somebody whacked, they send me. They want someone intimidated, they send me. I do the dirty work. And yeah... _sometimes_ I do alchemy stuff. And guard the door. You ain't wrong there.

-Is that really what you wanted to do in life? To work for a criminal organization? – Drevas turns to face him.

Velyn sighs, raises the bottle to his lips again and gulps down the whole thing. Then he speaks up, a bit more quietly.

-Look, I never really _wanted_ anythin'. My dad... never met him – Drevas resists the urge to interject with "me neither" – and my mom would just get wasted and leave me to do my own thing. Died when I was 9. I grew up in the street, pretty much, got into some bad company. Camonna Tong took me in when I was 12, told me I could live in the back room if I ran errands for them. People there taught me everythin' I know.

-So, compared to that, is me working for the Emperor _really_ that bad?

-It ain't a question of whether it's _bad_, Drev. We hate the Empire, and it don't like us much, neither. I can't support it, 's all I'm sayin'. – he slurs, scratching his chin.

-Why all the hate for the Empire?

-Whaddaya mean, why? – Velyn stammers – they're outlanders who don't understand Morrowind. They wanna destroy our culture. They send spies like you to find out about our forbidden history. What's there to like?

-Wait... am I the first outlander you've spoken to for more than two sentences? I am, aren't I? – Drevas asks with a grin.

-Well, I never _had_ to talk ta outlanders! Figured you were all scum.

-You know, you'd probably like outsiders more if you made an effort to get to know them – Drevas points out, as Velyn frowns and uncorks another bottle.

-Whatever - he says dejectedly – guild says outlanders are bad, so outlanders are bad. And you really ain't one to talk. The Emperor literally sent you to dig up information on the Nerevarine. That ain't something you just throw around. It's bad news.

Drevas can't think of anything to say_. It could be bad news_, he thinks. He has no idea why he's being sent on these missions, he just does them. For all he knows, Velyn could be onto something. But that's why he has to trust his superiors without questioning them, and do the missions he's assigned without knowing their meaning. The same thing, he notes, that Velyn does.

They sit in silence for a bit until Drevas pipes up.

-Funny you mentioned Vivec back there. I'm actually getting sent to Vivec City on my next mission. I got some time until that, though.

-That's a fine city, alright – Velyn nods approvingly – visited once or twice. Never stayed fer as long as I'd have liked. Damn fine city.

-Would you like to tag along?

Velyn gives him a glance and chuckles, not sure if Drevas is being serious, but answers anyway.

-Doubt you'd want me to. Some people know me there. They see us together, it'll be all... _what's this outlander doin' with Velyn? Should we call upon the Ordinators to protect this poor outlander?_ Ya know. And I don't wanna be seen with _you_, neither.

-Come on... what are the chances of running into people you know?

-Bigger than ya think – Velyn says grimly – the crew's got its eyes all over that place. Go to the No Name Club, ev'ryone's in the Camonna Tong there. Matter of fact – he leans back and raises the bottle – every Hlaalu place's got us runnin' around. – Drevas remembers Hlaalu from_ The War of the First Council_, and feels smart for catching that reference - You want me to _tag along_ somewhere, we've gotta go farther.

-I'll take that as a promise.

-Humph. Don't hold yer breath.

A bit later, Drevas finds Fasile in the Fighters Guild, and is surprised when she asks for almost 200 drakes for a single lesson.

-That's... a lot of money, Fasile. – He says reluctantly, checking his coin purse and seeing that he can just barely afford it.

-It is a lot of money, Drevas, because you are getting better every day, and trainings now require a certain engagement on my part. – She explains. – Do you remember our first few trainings?

Drevas thinks back of the first time he showed up, the way she barely looked at him while deftly deflecting his blows. His ribs almost reflexively start to hurt. He nods.

-I took it relatively easy on you back then, because you had to learn. We focused on mastering the art of swordsmanship slowly, with emphasis on making you internalize the basics, establish a strong foundation, and grow from there. And grow you did, Drevas. With every training, it became apparent to me that one day, to underestimate you would be a grave mistake on my part. And that day has come.

-So, what should I do?

-Don't get me wrong, I will still gladly train you if you have the coin – she offers him one of her rare smiles – but if you want my advice, you should talk to Eydis and see if she has some more... interesting quests for you. I have already spoken to her about your progress. It's about time you stopped hunting rats, after all.

As Drevas walks the halls of the Guild, he reflects on Fasile's words. He never thought he'd be able to get good at wielding a sword, or at least good enough that his mentor acknowledges it. His heart is pounding with excitement as he mentally adds that to the list of things he never thought he was capable of. He can even feel it when walking the Guild. The people who once sized him up and decided the skinny outlander was not worth their time, now nod at him amicably as he passes by. Even his sword doesn't feel as heavy in his arm anymore. Could he truly become more than a Waterfront thief? A fighter, a warrior? A knight, even?

And as he climbs the stairs to where Eydis Fire-Eye is sitting and doing paperwork, he feels ready to take on the world.


End file.
